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As the Cube invades and assimilates my neural network, synapse by synapse, neuron by neuron, the quantum entanglement phenomenon links my dying mind to information beyond time and space

5 : 336 : 01 : 45 : 17

I raise my gaze from the creamy froth of my pint and across the darkwood counter.

“Hey, old timer,” I call chief Penlann, the owner of The Brooding Mule, the biggest—and cheapest—tavern in the jolly town of Morelieu.

It’s Friday night. The lounge is chock-full of folk. But I don’t mind. On the contrary, it feels easier to talk under the cover of general rowdiness. The suitably raised BAC helps too.

As busy as he is, Penlann kindly drops whatever he’s doing and steps over to hear me out. I suppose it pays off, being a regular. All the copper I pour into his pockets earns me a bit of preferential treatment, once in a while. At least, I think that’s the reason. It’s the cleanest reason and keeps the beer down, so I choose to believe it. Surely he’s not into four-year-olds.

“What can I do for you, young lady?” that bear of a man asks and leans his thick, hairy arms on the counter.

Penlann may not be as suave as Sam, but he’s got presence.

I have his attention, but that’s only the first step.

I keep twisting my face and search for the right words.

Oh hell, I’m so bad at this kind of thing. Even after four beers, it’s not coming out at all.

It’s such a simple question too. Nothing too grand. A bit of a personal rub. An itch I can’t seem to reach on my own. Barkeep may not be the best person you’d turn to with a problem like this, but I don’t know anyone else—anyone similarly in tune with worldly affairs. Anyone who could pass the Turing test without bonus questions.

“I—I have a little problem,” I finally blurt out.

“Uh-huh,” Master Penlann nods empathically.

As a barkeep, he’s used to hearing stories. You could say people like him are pro listeners.

“I have a little problem,” I repeat, “and I was thinking, maybe you could spare a word of advice. As someone more—more ancient. I mean, experienced. Having seen life. Being on the downward trending slope of the age graph. Nearing the twilight of your day. Having a sprinkle less regular. You get what I’m saying?”

“I’m barely forty yet, and being treated like I'm already one foot in the grave kind of stings,” Penlann mumbles, awkwardly scratching his black beard with his stubby fingers. “But sure, I can help. If I can help. I can make an effort for it.”

“Hey, I meant no offense,” I clarify. “It was a compliment, for once. I know people who make the pyramids look like a TikTok fad, and the respect I have for you is up there with those guys. Hell, in many ways, I rank you even higher. Like, you may be only an uneducated, pigheaded redneck from the boonies, who knows nothing about life outside this stinking town—but you don’t judge. Like, you never tell me it’s wrong for a minor to drink, or that I have an addiction, or that my behavior is not befitting a lady, or anything the zombies back home always say. You don’t even judge Jamie, who’s spilling his mead all over that rare and expensive polar bear rug. Which is making it look like the bear took a gold shower in its final moments, and that’s not half as glorious as it sounds. Man, you’re like Gandhi, being able to just watch it happen, and not go punch his face in. I couldn’t do that! If that were my bear rug there, I’d shoot off his kneecaps. Jamie would be yesterday—all that trouble that seems so far away. And that, my friend, is why you have my respect. I honestly believe even our enlightened masters could take notes from you. No, really.”

Actually, I was just taking the piss out of him, but don’t tell him that. I’ll only tell it to the camera under the table.

“I heard that, you know?” Penlann points out. “And there’s nobody under the table.”

“Dude, you’re not supposed to react to that. Check your script.”

Penlann wipes his deeply creased forehead and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Look, Zero. I try not to judge, as you said. You meet all kinds of folk in this line of business, and get used to seeing oddballs too. I’m going to have to charge Jamie for the rug, sure, but these things happen. Nothing a bit of soap couldn't fix. When I bought this place, I accepted there would be downsides to the deal too, and I wouldn’t stay in business for long if I got upset over every little thing. But, if you want my honest opinion, I think you may’ve had a pint or two too many tonight.”

“You think? I lost count somewhere after eight. But then I decided this one here is the new number four, and four is not all that much. It’s your own damn fault, really, making this stuff too good. But that’s neither here nor there. The deal is, I have a problem. Okay, maybe not strictly a ‘problem-problem’. Nobody’s dying, the world’s not ending, no wars about to break out—none of the usual. But I’ve found it’s not something I can solve by myself, and it’s slowly driving me nuts. Nuttier.”

“It’s okay, you can call it a problem,” Penlann assures me. “Not every issue has to be apocalyptic. And I’m pretty sure you have more than just one.”

“Oh, so now you’re judging?” I’m shocked by the attitude and decide to remind the uppity barkeep of his place. “Every time you get sarky with me, you owe me another beer. We agreed on this.”

“...No? No, we didn’t,” Penlann argues, briefly double-checking his memory to make sure if such promises took place.

“That’s two beers now,” I inform him.

“What? I wasn’t being sarky now.”

“You implied I could be lying. I’m mortally insulted. I thought our friendship went deeper than that. I would never lie about alcohol, and I never lie, period. So I believe you owe your star customer compensation.”

“You mean, that time when you got drunk here last and copped a feel of my wife’s ass, and claimed you were merely helping her keep balance—that was not the worst lie I’ve ever heard come out of the mouth of a person?”

I seek to express deep outrage with my expression.

“I’m appalled that you’d doubt me like this! Clearly, she staggered. I had to act fast, or it could’ve ended badly. She could’ve twisted an ankle. You should thank me for keeping your family safe, and not whine about it like a little bitch.”

Although Penlann’s wife is much too attractive for an oaf like him, unnecessarily lascivious, I wouldn’t do that to a good friend.

“I am grateful,” the barkeep says. “Grateful that you care enough about my feelings to try and lie about it. But you kind of went over the line when you started humping too.”

“Gods! I did no such thing! You were seeing things and—To begin with, your wife shouldn’t point her butt at people when she pours drinks! That’s bad manners. I was convinced she was asking for it—I mean, none of that ever happened! FUCK!”

It didn’t happen, it didn’t, it didn’t, it didn’t.

“We broke sales records that night, so I’ll let it slide. This time. As long as it won’t happen again.”

“Why, thank you.” I commend Penlann’s understanding. “But this goes to show what a huge heart you have, how you don’t sweat the small stuff. That's exactly the shit I’m talking about. Hard-earned wisdom of life. That special brand of experience you have to live to learn, which smells of old booze and nights spent in the gutter. None of that awkward over-analysing by shut-in losers, picked up from light novels and Pornhub.”

“Okay.” The barkeep makes a slow nod. “I’ll take that as your special brand of compliment, as unflattering as it sounds. My ears are open. Just, could I ask you to maybe get to the point sometime soon? I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re kind of full tonight, and the line behind you is getting awfully long.”

I take a gander over my shoulder at the line of customers as it worms across the bar floor to the door. And I turn back and don’t want to see that abomination again. Penlann starts filling pints, while keeping in an earshot.

“Busyness is only a state of mind,” I replay the words of my enlightened masters. “Let the masses wait, I’m getting to it. Ahem.”

I start my search for the right words over from the beginning.

What did I want to ask again? All this noise makes it difficult to get my thoughts in order. Ah, right.

My big problem.

“Okay,” I try again. “There’s no easy, simple way to put this, so I’m just going to say it as it is.”

“All right. Fire away. I mean, speak. Don't shoot anybody.”

I take a deep breath and summon my courage. Nope, not getting courage.

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Instead, I empty my pint, give myself a foam mustache, and put the glass down with a bang. And, while my senses and mental restraints are overwhelmed by the fumes, declare out loud,

“I think I’m in love.”

As soon as I say that, both my ears get blocked. Or, I think they got blocked, since I can’t hear a thing anymore. I swallow to unclog them, but there’s actually nothing wrong with my hearing. It's the tavern that's gone dead quiet. All the background chatter, laughter, and murmur, the clanking of pints and clinking of glasses and creaking of chairs is gone. Nobody moves a muscle.

What’s going on?

Right as I wonder if a devious enemy wizard put everyone under a spell, a sudden cry carries from the background.

“—Zero has a lover!”

The absurd line is followed by a full-on cacophony of outraged voices talking over each other.

—“No, come ooon!”—“Who is it!? Who’s the lucky bastard!?”—“Out with it! What’s the name?”—“I won’t stand for it!”—“I’ll break his fokin’ legs!”

A mayhem that makes Nikéa look like the first day of the U.S. Open fills the lounge from corner to corner. I haven’t seen the locals this riled up since the time a traveling peddler sold them virility charms made of unicorn horn. In reality, they were made of paper mache and no more magical than granny’s knickers. As a sworn defender of truth and justice, I had to break the bad news for them.

Penlann takes the pint he was about to hand out to a customer and pours it over his own head instead. A waitress drops a trayful of tankards and dashes off into the backroom, sobbing into her hands. I can’t even hear my internal monologue in this racket.

—“Guys, what the hell!” I stand up and shoot a Flashpoint at the ceiling to silence the crowd. “I’m trying to have a fucking conversation!”

I always knew this town was small, but not this small. Get real news!

“Young lady,” Penlann articulates with great care as he leans on the counter, ale dripping down his face and beard. “I do not mean to question your life choices, it’s not my place, but—maybe you should wait a few more years, before committing to a relationship. At least five years. Fifteen. Twenty.”

I have to question his moral compass. “You think I’m old enough to drink, but not old enough to date?”

“Relationships—just aren’t for everybody, necessarily,” he poses. “Like fruits in cocktails.”

“Right.” I nod in understanding. “Like pineapples in pizza?”

“Like pink clothes on men.”

“Like cinematic video games?”

“Like showering in the morning instead of evening.”

“Like those live action remakes of the classic Disney movies? No, wait, a bad example. I don’t think those are meant for anybody.”

Penlann carries on with an unnecessary elaboration,

“The point is, there are things that are better kept as they are. Untouched. Like, think of how the valley looks in the morning after the first snow. It’s beautiful. Breathtaking. You may not be able to hold it in your hands, you can only gaze upon it from afar, but it’s still precious. One of a kind. Then people pass over the fields with their carts and trample the hills with their aimless footsteps. The sun rises, the snow thaws, and the scenery begins to look like the shit of my dog, Pondo, after it ate a box of chalk sticks. Not—not beautiful.”

“Thank you so much for that. That image is going to haunt me tonight.”

“Yes, it was not pleasant.”

“What were we talking about, again?”

He continues, “What I want to say is, don’t become like my wife. I want you to think very carefully who you let into your secret garden, Zero. Because, as fun and thrilling as it seems in the heat of the moment, blindly following what your heart says is not always a good idea. There are many long-lasting risks involved, knowing the state of medicine. And when the fun’s over, you’re left with the consequences. The itching and burning, the chemist's bill, and threats of legal action by the partner's family.”

The way Penlann’s wife is gripping that fruit knife in the background doesn’t look like fun and games anymore.

The topic is getting a little too personal for comfort, so I decide it to bring it back on the track.

“Yes, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I say. “I mean, not STDs, but what brought you and your wife together. See, the thing is, I have no clue how to cross that bridge. How do two people actually ‘get together’? How do you break through that vague wall that divides platonic friendship from the steamy stuff? How do you express to someone that you're serious about them, without coming across as pathetically mawkish, disgustingly pushy, or an unsettling mix of the two? Because I have no idea.”

Penlann pauses.

“...You mean, you haven't yet... Consummated your relationship? With this—whoever it is.”

“What?” I raise a brow. “No. No! That’s the whole problem I’ve been trying to tell you! Are you even listening?”

“Okay. Does the lucky person then know how you feel about him?”

“No. I don't know. I don’t think so.”

“Do you know if the feeling is mutual?”

“No, I don’t know. I’m repeating myself a lot. Probably not? Fuck, I haven't the faintest! That’s a pretty big part of the problem, really! To begin with, I can’t even tell if I have a real chance, or not!”

Would make things so much easier if I knew.

“——”

I hear a huge whoosh, as everyone in the tavern exhales a collective sigh of relief.

“Really!” I yell at the populace. “Stop fucking listening! I’ll kill you!”

If I don’t die of embarrassment first.

“So?” Penlann stands back and shrugs with a bland look on his face, still drenched in ale. “What’s the problem? You just go and confess.”

“’Go and confess’?” I repeat his dumb advice aloud, to highlight how dumb it is. “Easy for you to say! Why would I be here making an ass of myself in public, if I were capable of that? I’m asking you, what is the right way to do it? The best way? The approach with the highest probability of success? That’s what I want to know!”

“It’s not a magic ritual, or anything,” the guy tells me. “The right way differs for everybody. Not knowing how it’s going to go is simply a part of the deal. You might not succeed on the first try—in fact, most people don’t. But so what? That’s life. Plenty of fish in the sea. If only you keep trying, you’ll catch a big one some day. That’s how I got together with my little rosebud too. I’ve proposed to a lot of women in my time, but she was the first one impulsive enough—I mean, loving and open-minded enough to say yes. And, well, her parents finding out about the little...advance wedding gift I gave her sped up the proceedings, a lot. But all’s well that ends well, right?”

“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” I tell the empty pint in front of me. “The sea’s empty for me. It's either this one, or no one. I'd rather be alone forever than give up on that person.”

The barkeep gives me a most sympathetic look. “Yes, I used to say excessively melodramatic lines like that too. When I was a teen. But you need to accept that real love isn’t like in the big books. We’re only imperfect mortals here, with our ups and downs. But I think the chance of mucking it up is what gives life flavor. Keeps things interesting. Like raisins in a sweet roll.”

“Well, I’m the kind of gal who digs out the raisins before I eat the roll, because I fucking hate those things. There has to be a way to remove the raisins from life too. How do I eliminate any chance of screwing up where it matters most, and won’t be left with a bad taste in my mouth? Because I can’t pick myself back up when it happens, and just drown myself in alcohol.”

“You’re doing that already,” Penlann points out.

“Because shit keeps going south! But this is the one thing in my life that I want to do right. It’s not just about me! It’s for the other person’s sake too. So come on! Work with me here!”

“Would help if I knew who's the bastard—person,” the barkeep reflects as he dries his face with a tablecloth. “What’s he like, what he’s into, what’s his one critical weakness—I mean, soft spot. I mean, the thing he’s most susceptible to. In a romantic sense. Not talking about shanking the fellow.”

“Looking at your wife’s expression, I think she knows all your soft spots,” I caution the old man. “And I mean the ones that inflict the heaviest damage.”

“...”

“And—I can’t give you names!”

Not because I fear for the safety of my crush.

Because it’s not a “he” in the first place. And I’m too embarrassed.

Only thinking about that person’s face makes me blush like a little girl. Oh, I can’t stand it! I hide my face in my hands.

The audience growls angrily. They still can’t mind their own business. I’m going to get them for this.

“Why not?” Penlann grumpily asks me. “It’s a small town, not a lot of candidates. I’m guessing it’s work-related too. You don’t mingle much with anybody outside the castle while sober. Is it one of the guardsmen? Or anybody else reputable enough for the community to somehow accept? Or will I have to ask Steiner to start putting a new casket together in the morning?”

“I said no comments.”

He’s getting dangerously close already. Guess he’s not half as dumb as he looks.

“...It’s not Sephram, is it?”

“What?” I pause, stunned. “What? Why does that guy’s name even come up?”

I take it back. He’s twice as dumb as he looks.

Penlann shifts uncomfortably and avoids my eyes.

“Well, he seems the most likely suspect. Looking at the popularity polls, and everything that went down before.”

You’re hosting polls now?

“Gosh, no!” I cut him off, unwilling to hear more. “No. I mean, no. No. Have I said no enough yet? No. By the gods, that’s it. Another beer, now. Your treat, for being such a huge dumbo!”

“Why not?” the geezer asks, unconvinced.

“Because I already said no? Want to hear it one more time? No. It’s so—Sappy! Corny, syrupy. Uninspired. So conventional and safe it makes me want to gag. Me, with a boy scout like him? I’m getting diabetes! Ew! Ew!”

To begin with, I don’t think he’s into girls.

“Then who else?” Penlann looks around with a skeptic shrug, as if expecting an alternative husband candidate to step out from hiding. And I think I’ve about had it with his rubbish.

“Hey, I’ve heard a lot of stupid crap from you tonight and not a great deal of practical advice. In fact, I’m starting to think turning to you with this goes straight into my top ten biggest fuck-ups of all time. Yeah, we’re talking fifth place now. Thanks a lot, fatso. You’re a disaster almost as bad as what went down in Nikéa!”

“Come on, don’t be like that. Here you are. On the house.”

Showing appropriate remorse and shame on his face, Penlann lifts the refilled pint on the counter. My fourth—probably not—beer helps my righteous wrath a little.

“You want my expert counsel then?” the tavern owner says, putting on his serious face. “Then you’re going to get it. I’m going to tell you the surefire method that tied the knot for me and my chunky dandelion; my special snowflake, my dazzling rainbow, my ever-blooming sunflower...Is she still aiming at my liver? Anyway, this is going to work, guaranteed. Success rate one hundred percent. You go and make that special someone of yours happy, you hear me?”