I was always buffering, pausing mid-sentence to collect my thoughts, while the listener stood waiting, bored. Sometimes mid-word. Family and friends stood politely as I froze and tried to remember the next thing to say. No matter how many times they clicked “play”, I was always buffering. They might wonder why they bothered to wait, when they could so easily find someone else to talk to – someone with the same information I had, or better. Some did just that. Some left me buffering, went off to do something else, then returned to see if I'd moved or changed. Was I ready to talk? Sometimes still no, so they'd leave again and later return for a second time – but not for a few days, or weeks, or maybe never.
I was always buffering. I still am, sometimes. I wasn't fully fixed. They sent someone round for repairs – to ask me a few questions. They turned me off and on again, and then I was better than before, or at least not worse.
But still, to this day, sometimes a person asks me a question and I say, “Give me a sec...” and they know I'm up to no good. Or, more accurately, no good is up with me. Good is not what I am. I keep them waiting and most of them leave.
But some friends and family—out of loyalty, obligation or wilful ignorance—stick around and wait for me to respond. As if it doesn't bother them that I'm always buffering, or doesn't bother them enough to forget that they care about me.