We knew the crowd. It was the same people we saw on random weekday nights—the online literati, the handful of unemployed bloggers, the web writers who moonlighted as msnbc commentators. We had all checked in on Foursquare. We had all kept our iPhones and our Blackberries gripped in our hands or else places them gingerly on the bar, check and re-checking for messages.
Some of them knew about us. We had checked in together on Foursquare in the evenings, and check in together in the mornings. Anyone with an internet connection could see we were together.
He sat next to me at the bar with his arm draped around my shoulders, kissing my cheek.
“I think people know,” he whispered.
He took a sip of his scotch. “Yes. I think people see us checking in on Foursquare together. They know.”
“Oh yes,” I agreed. “Nevermind we just made out in front of a dozen of our friends for five minutes and snuck downstairs together for another drink, or that you felt me up on the staircase.”
“Well, that too.”
“Mmmhmm,” I responded. “Fucking technology.”