It’s simple truths that keep me going. “You have to remember, lest you forget” is one of them. So I remember. I lie on the floor and remember. For days. For years.
###
There I was, I remember, sitting in one of the few reality restaurants left in Boston, overdressed, fidgeting with the velvety box in my pocket. I slid my thumb in and the box nibbled at it like a baby biting his mother’s tit. The ring was still there, and the stone was in place too; the three glittering paychecks of a diamond scratched a bit of comfort into my skin. I left the ring alone for thirty seconds or so and then repeated my neurotic ritual. Normally, I am not like that, but that day, yeah. . . I was OCD in flesh and blood.
Where is our goddamn champagne? It’d been fifteen minutes since I slipped a note to our waiter, asking for Dom Perignon. At that point, I was ready to believe he’d missed it. Waiters here didn’t use implants, so one had to mouth-speak the order to them, which they’d scribble on a piece of paper, certain to mess something up. And then you pay tenfold for “authenticity”. But, well. . . we all do foolish things for love, and I knew Naomi had a kink for things “real-real.”
She sat across the table, looking all gorgeous as always, a silvery dress highlighting the deep brown of her skin. “Isn’t it better, babe?” she said, gliding her finger along the wooden surface of the table. I tried it too. The finish was rough to maximize the sensation, a cheap trick. I smiled. Vinyl vs digital, tube vs transistor, VR vs R – some people just can’t let go of nostalgia.
Dessert was gone; having nothing else to eat, Naomi returned to the remnants of her Caesar salad. All of Caesar’s troops already died a gruesome death, except for the three cherry tomatoes. They slid along the oily plate, escaping the stabs. When they are gone, I thought, waiting will be too obvious. Maybe it’s already too obvious. One of the tomatoes got impaled. Its blood splattered onto the plate, and its mutilated body disappeared between Naomi’s sensual lips. She savored it.
As time dragged on, the neighboring table became a bit of a problem. Three aging frat boys around it guffawed louder and louder after each shot. They were at first trying to outquip each other, but as their BAC rose, their jokes disintegrated.
“These guys, –” one of them said, pointing across the room at an elderly Asian couple. He broke into laughter and slapped the table a few times instead of a punchline. His two buddies were delighted and joined, all three now clacking in unison. One of them pulled the corners of his eyelids to the sides and a new laughter shitbomb exploded.
I pretended not to see and was glad Naomi sat with her back to them. Still, the sounds were enough; Naomi tapped her implant as in “let’s get outta here?”
It was sure tempting to let our chips take over, let them tickle our sensory cortices and make it a normal date where we could revel in gluttony for hours on end, gobble simulated foie gras and caviar without ever getting full. All that with zero calorie consumption and a staggering backdrop of Venus sunset reflected in Naomi’s eyes – what else can you ask for? And yet there was more; with a modest dilation fee, the whole date would take no more than fifteen minutes real-time: less than I’d spent waiting for that accursed champagne. Reality dates suck, no matter how you look at them, but the reservation cost me as much as the ring; might as well enjoy it till the end. Besides, progressive and all, I just can't see myself as one of those losers who propose in VR.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Mmm?” Naomi tapped her implant again and raised an eyebrow.
“Let’s at least wait for the check,” I said, faking excitement to make sure she doesn’t feel guilty for dragging us here. As if sharing a precious secret, I leaned forward and added in a half-whisper “they have real paper checks here, have you ever seen one?” She laughed at my poor acting but seemed more at ease.
Our waiter was finally in sight. He appeared from the kitchen across the hall, carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne, a bunch of fruits, and two pretty-looking desserts. I felt bad for blaming him before – he just added a touch to my special occasion order. I followed the waiter with my gaze which placed my line of sight just above the frat boys' heads.
“Hey, you! Whatcha staring at?” one of them spluttered. His buddies giggled in approval.
“I’m not staring, I was just — ”
“Also what’s that thing you brought?” the man interrupted, nodding at Naomi, “You have a fetish or something?”
All three’d lost it, one of them choked on his beer and spat it over the table.
Something snapped as months of pent-up jittery anticipation, planning, saving, and hoping were trampled on and smeared in shit by some random asshole. It was so absurd and unfair I had to either act or break in tears. I stood up. Out of fear or anger, my knees trembled; I hoped Naomi didn’t notice. I wished I’d stayed seated and found a nice retort to shut the frat boys up. I even wished I could sit back down, but to fold in like that is not something a man can live off in his woman’s eyes. So I did the only thing left to me and approached the guy.
“What?” he said with a broad smile.
“Say that again,” I said, barely forming words in my dry mouth, pushing myself deeper into the corner. What do I do if he does say it again? Can’t let it slide, can’t stand here getting laughed at, and brawling with three bigger guys would only get me humiliated…
“Oh I said nothing, buddy,” the frat boy said, struggling to keep a straight face. I prayed for him to stop there, but he went on, “it’s just that a Western man must have some standards where to shove his di—”
The waiter approached just in time for me to reach the bottle. The frat boy collapsed, a dark streak of blood oozed from his temple where the implant once was. A bloody chunk of hair and skin was stuck to the bottom of Dom Perignon that I held in my hand.
The other two frat boys kept laughing. The waiter stood with a smile, his tray empty. I looked at Naomi, but somehow she did not look right. I could barely recognize her, I just knew it must be her. But it was not her, it was some beautiful lady looking exactly like Naomi, with Naomi’s face and body, but… not… Naomi. I don’t know how else to explain it. I looked back at the waiter and did not recognize him either. His tray was gone. The frat boys were gone. All around me turned soft, plasticky, strange. My hands, feet, and the tongue in my mouth felt as if they were made of rubber, they were not mine. My vision faded.