Sex in small dimensions, measured by the six-by-three of a smartphone screen. Your hair, dripping pixels, fills your well-black camera edge. "I'm sorry, let me get a better angle" precede whirling visions of all three, six, twelve of you, all laughing. This is how we love at a distance. Fumbling across the gaps between electrons and fibre-wire, our surfaces connecting and blossoming like oil slicks with every furtive touch. My hand which is your hand which is my hand tucked beneath my thighs, bucking beneath capacitive touch. The connection jolts. Instantly you shatter into 360p, O-face frozen as a yawning black square. "Are you okay?" Breathe in, breathe out. I hold the phone sideways, a mirror placed across from me, your face superimposed on mine. When the connection resumes, we hold our hands together, fingerprinting our edge displays. "Anytime, baby." Your smile insists that we be familiar with this, moving on.