25th Feb 2317 I remember the day, that horrid day. It was a Monday I think around noon in London. It’s hard to really forget it.  How can anyone be in this newly shambled-together maze of urban zones? It was the day when the very essence of what made us human, our capacity for emotion and most importantly our capacity for emotion, mainly what they called – non-sanctioned and governmental love became illegal. The simple reason for what most rational thinking people thought (even if they wouldn’t admit it out loud) was the government. Mainly it's an overkill approach to this emotion-hungry big brother. That along with the pond scum Minister Robert Jackson, was this in the government's small minds. Love and certain positive emotions were the root cause, or so they believed of the devastating worldwide mass riots of 2280. That lasted most of the last decade. This decade-long hell became known simply as The Revelation.

They started over something small apparently. To this day only Jackson knows the real cause. However, on the streets, people say it was over a failed marriage between two warring tyrants. The fact is that may or may not have been a myth. But now no one really cares or wants to know the truth any more. Either way within a year maybe two the riots and chaos had hit here!

A simple disagreement over views set the spark to the tinderbox of chaos that followed, taking the lives of thousands including my wife and daughter. I don’t even think the culprits were caught. That’s the real injustice, not emotion. 

Personally, I believe the government and Jackson’s little minions spun the whole thing to their advantage. Forgetting or worse not even caring about the human factor, instead just caring how many damn votes they got. After the law was passed, I eventually forgot my previous concerns and theories and began to believe this new emotionless system worked. Until I remembered my family died that is, in those flaming riots. But eventually even mourning my loss was in violation of the law. It left me hollow and numb for such a long time.

Now though I often think back to the day, the day when she walked into my life. When she showed me that walking the fine line between, what we are expected to feel and more importantly what she made me think were two different things. Total poles apart from each other. The choice in my mind was simple, either toe the line like everyone else. Feeling hollow forever or risk things, things and feel things again that I buried and almost forgotten. This was my choice to toe the line or feel again, it sounds simple but it isn't, especially when I’m forced to ask myself are these feelings worth breaking the law for? Even if they were for her...

I

I remember the day, well 23rd February 2317 that day will be etched in my soul forever. The other thing I remember was the god-awful rain mixed with the rancid neon glow from the chrome-like monoliths that had taken root and taken over this zone. The unearthly mix of neon chrome and rain made my stomach churn. As I looked out through the small window, that I had ritually found myself looking out of night after night recently. I watched as the rain lashed down sending prisms of cascading colour bouncing off the Terra-crete like surfaces. The rhythmic rattle of rain echoed pleasantly through the long disused diesel train carriage. A place the locals of the zone had dubbed Rosie's. This small carriage had regularly become my refuge from the world and tonight was no exception. This refuge broke the skyline of towering metallic monoliths and monstrosities that made up this dam urban city. This little retro bolt-hole from a time before my fathers, father had become a pockmark on this so-called improved way of life/ Plus it had become my favourite place. I don’t know why but I loved the fact that this small time-warp was stuck in the past, with hardly so-called forced improvements courtesy of technology, forced upon it. It was just out of place which frankly was what I’d been feeling for a long time now.

But there I sat solemn, my drenched jacket haphazardly slung over my small booth’s partner chair. Rain dripped from the coat's leather-like folds, pooling upon the old cheque. The oh-so-welcoming aroma of one-credit caffeine hit the spot, it was a small but nice break from the hectic hive-like traffic this technologically rich lifestyle had created. I hated the way life had changed, I think deep down everyone in this city did, even if they wouldn't admit it, yearned for the old days when books weren’t all digital and the pace was like that of a snail, back to a time when it was the people of the city that mattered. Not the damn droids of another twisted soul-sucking advancement made for our ‘best interests’ by the busy bee’s up in the clouds. The plush leather seats and early American décor were exactly what I think we all needed these days. As I sat there thinking the feeling of a slower pace would suit me down to the ground, and maybe one day I’d leave for the two agro-zones out west, as I thought on about a simple life my long shift at Cyber-Tech relentlessly building the eyes for droids that will benefit humanity. It was ironically a foot in itself some would say, especially for a blind man. Now thankfully the weight of that shift was leaving my shoulders. The weak coffee was my half-baked reward, as after a while the last dregs of my relief seemed to do the trick.

I just sat there my eyes semi-glued to the rain outside, even if through my visor. I only saw the world in a blue haze. It’s vision but barely and the absolute basics the medical hubs would sell to me on my meagre salary. This blue haze only showed outlines mind, the outlines were like ants running from a flame. All of them tried to outrun the rain. I contemplated either getting a hover cab home to my empty sub-urban flat or staying for another one-credit coffee and slice of pie in this warm retro bubble. Across the diner, amongst the slow stream of patrons of this throughback piece of anti-metropolitan heaven, I could hear her, but at first, I won't lie I didn’t take much notice of her.  As on top of my pie and coffee conundrum, was my eyes or lack of. My visor was giving me the mother of all headaches. The doctors always said long periods plugged into the visor, would inflame the optic nerves and well give me migraines. It was a small price to pay really to be normal if that's even possible these days. So unplugging my visor the void of blankness of my real existence took hold. That’s when I caught the faint smell of honey. My mind wanders as I try to route out its sweet source. It took me a few minutes to cut through the sea of smells at Rosie’s. 

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Until there it was again, that smell. 

Honey!

But no, not honey something sweeter, like forgotten blossoms on a summer's day. But where was it coming from, even if my eyes had failed me, my heart hadn’t I had to pick out the source of my intrigue. The question I couldn’t find an answer to but all I could see was white. I’m not complaining it’s been like that for as long as I can remember, despite the neural visor. But this void of vision had now almost become a friend and companion, but at times it was also a curse. Then the sound of Rosie’s electronic chime and the swish of the opening door, cut through the orchestra of noise around me, thanks to the bell though my senses were focused, crystal clear as if they were set alight above the norm. I could now hear everything and nothing my senses like I said were on fire, but that smell hung onto the edges of my mind. Concentrating hard I push past the sea of chatter, dread-full holo-call and a bickering couple at the other end of the carriage, even the sound, as if it was calming the storm around me. My concentration grows as my ears trail the sound.

I carefully followed the source back to its home, and then there it was. My answer was the source of my nectar, that smell that hooked me in. My intoxication in this semi-permanent would of overpowering sense. Yet I had to dive deeper into this sea of sweetness and swim hard to this far-off island of honey. Before I know it I’m stood up, hoping to be noticed, but no my hand is spread. Its metallic finger senses the floor. A white cane touching everything clattering off booths, tables and chairs. As I probe my way, the sea of sound and its waves pick up around me. I’m now glued to the spot. The robotic waitress moved around me, the robot was made to look like a woman from a black and white B-movie from centuries ago. The smells of the robot's orders blocked my path, hiding my destination from me. My touch extends again hoping for a break in the assault, but I have no luck. It's then I hear my obstacle, I can almost taste the smell of grease and the unpleasant cloud of three-day-old sweat and overpowering yet cheap cologne. I hear the obnoxious tone of this hover trucker's cocky voice insulting everyone in his wake. Like a serial killer from the twenty-first century, he murdered the positive feeling nestled inside of Rosie’s metal-shelled embrace. If Mount Everest still existed, this would be my mighty mountain. Now I was at base camp stuck slap bang in the middle of the carriage. Was all lost, right now I didn’t know. No!

I couldn’t give up now. So there I was, I stood there, my mind fixed on my goal. Hunting for a way through. But then my ears caught a glimmer of something. Was it her?

That smell, I wasn’t, no couldn't give up now. But how was I going to overcome this bulk of obesity? I couldn't just wait and hope to find a way around, by then it could be too late. No, I had to do something, so relying on my void-less friend I made my move. I could smell the sickly cloud of grease that was the oafish wall's breakfast if you could call it that. It was more of a heart attack on a plate. Then another smell filled my nostrils the smell of mustard. It was then that I had a small glint on a plan. Now the void was truly my best friend. Helping me formulate my move like a chess player ready to make one last gambit. So I inch forward, I play my king and make my move, staggering as convincingly as I could towards him. All the time praying his biased views will help me pull this off. Then I act.  I trip into him, trying to hide my sly smile. I knock into him with full force, and with mustard in hand as it pours like sludge down his already stained trousers, and at the same time sending his so-called meal barrelling to the floor. The oaf stands, and the odour comes off him like flies on a dung heap, it almost makes me hurl. I fight back the urge, I manage it and my plan works. He stood, and I didn’t even need working eyes to tell, he was angry. I could almost feel his next move as if life suddenly fast-forwarded a few seconds and then back in a single heartbeat. He hurls his weight around towards me. I hear his foot pivot and the air rush past my face, as he raises a large fatted fist and then goes to strike. But he suddenly stops dead. His anger is cut off quickly. As he faces me, I feel his foul breath on me, like a brimstone-rich wave of repulsion. Then I catch his stream of whispered profanities all aimed at me.

But thankfully I didn’t catch the whole stream of them. Yet it was still a result. He storms off,  still muttering, towards the exit as the diner's electronic bells chime again, along with the dull thud of a cleaning bot being kicked hard and toppling over. But now the oaf and thankfully gone, much to the relief of everyone inside. We all could breathe easier again. Now my solitary hunt could carry on. I had to find the source of this trophy-like aroma. But this time it wasn’t the luscious smell of honey that pulled me in, and back on course. No, this time it was a hint of satin-like words softly spoken. So off I went carrying on my search for perfection. As I do I find her. There she was in front of me. Yet I play it cool and move passed her, passing people talking about their mundane lives, and one or two idle gossip catching every third word as I went by. I make my way to a neighbouring table opposite this Venus but still keep her in earshot. With the honey-rich smell sitting this close to me, it was rich and addictive, almost alcoholic to my senses. Was I punch drunk, or was it something more? 

As I now sat for the second time, I was able to catch every slender rich tone of her voice, as she read softly to herself, but this was no holo-book, no this was a relic some would say. A real genuine bound book, tactile with paper nonetheless. Plus it was one I knew all too well. Although I’d read the book a thousand times before. The soft honey smell surrounded her every word. She made them alive again as if I was hearing them fresh for the very first time….

O my loves like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June;

O my loves like the melody 

That’s sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear

Till a’ the sea’s gang dry.

After a little more of what I hoped to be a joint love of Robert Burns, I found myself sitting waiting, I was now only a foot away but in some respects still miles away from her. But just sitting here I felt alive. But I was also lost now not knowing what to do. I was stuck, almost scared like a child, trying to pluck up a thimble full of courage to ask a young girl on a date, well if that was still allowed anyway. So there I sat praying to the keeper of wishes for a sign, and then with a third electronic bell chime and a gust of outwardly cold breeze, my answer came in on the breeze. I stand up and take a few paces towards her, yet again playing on the prejudices of the world.