Read by Helen Belbin
Mysteriousness to 96%. Sexual drive to 87%. Considerateness 93%.
I step back while the model recalibrates. Its power light is pulsing. Outside the window, the stars are hidden by the fug. It’s the fug that’s got us hidden indoors. That’s our world now: indoors.
“Debs,” the model says, alert now, “Debs, you must be cold.”
The voice startles me. Deeper than the last one. It whips a blanket off the chair, the green one, and puts it around my shoulders, clasps it together at my chest. Its other hand goes to my chin. It holds my chin in a little pinch, delicate, commanding. The model’s eyes have gone somewhere between green and brown. It invites me to dream, that colour.
“It’s not good to be cold. To be cold, is to not feed your soul.”
“Wha–?”
The model puts its finger to my lips, shushes me, strokes my cheek. Its hair is long, down past its stubble. The looks have to match the personality. Now I’m thinking this one’s a bit young for me, actually.
“Listen,” I say, but the model shushes me again.
“Can you feel that?” it says, putting my hand on its pec. The heartbeat is there, it’s a good approximation. I wonder how it’s done. “My heart, your heart–”
“Okay, native:stop_calibrate,” I say, and the model stops, hangs its head, as if in shame. I reach for the pad, take a step back even though it’s limp before me. I don’t need a heart-to-heart, not like that. Reduce mysteriousness to 35%. Sexual drive to 43%. Considerateness … 73%. Adjust some more: Down-to-Earthness up to 80%. Friendliness 85%. Listening Ability 70%.
It’s recalibrating. Companionship has arrived, on your doorstep, they said. Wait it out with your model. Three evenings it’s been, trying to get this right. The instructions are simple enough: keep experimenting until you find the sweet spot. The blogs were more helpful: find the balance, they said, something that will keep you interested mid-to-long term, because the shorter, more sexual builds get tiring. There were even suggested mods on Reddit. But I wanted to do it myself.
Attempt 1 was a riot, won’t put Fun Loving at 100% again, no way, not after the thing opened my only champagne, sprayed me with it, told me I was a drag. Had to message the neighbours, say sorry for the noise. They told me not to worry, being single through all this must be tough, smiley face, enjoy your model.
Attempt 2, I gave in, went for a sexual build, will be returning to that one, but my God, you need to spray it with a water bottle once you’re done.
Attempt 5 wasn’t good. Realism was the strategy for that one, I wanted something like the boyfriends I’ve had. Middle-aged, like me, a little extra weight, like me. But the thing sat watching TV, hand in pants. It tasted of crisps when I kissed it.
Attempt 7, intelligent, that was nice, but I gave it too much intelligence, it got depressed, sat in the corner, flicking a Zippo, telling me we’re all just stardust.
Attempt 11, a woman, haven’t done that since uni, not sure I’ll be going there again.
Attempt 16, a crier, no idea what happened. The appearance was right with that one: Roman nose, cleft chin. All the things I like. I suppose someone else might think them freakish, but what do I care, we’re all sitting at home in our filtered air, waiting for the next six years to pass.
It boots up.
“All right, Deb,” it says. Northern, plucky. “Fancy a brew?”
“Oh,” I say, rubbing my arm. I’m always a little shy at first. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
“Oh, right? Is it? It’s no issue Deb, we can have a decaf.”
I don’t know if I have decaf, but the model’s rooting around in my cupboards. It’s greying on the sides, I quite like that. Chequered shirt, good touch.
“Here we go,” it says, waggling two tea bags in a little cha-cha dance. I snort, it’s an accident. It pops the kettle on. “This your gaff? It’s all right.”
I step into the kitchen, although the kitchen is just a corner in the apartment. My bedroom is in the other corner, the office is in the third, the packaging for the model is folded by the door. I’ll have to chute it out tomorrow morning. I don’t like using the machine, all that sucking and hissing, reminding me of the toxic air just on the other side.
“Well, work’s looked after me. They’ve set me up nicely,” I say, but regret it. Small talk about work, honestly. I don’t want to get into it, not after Attempt 21. I made that one politically engaged. Big mistake. It refused to make out with me after we disagreed on the necessity of market reform in fug-era Britain.
“Mm,” it says. It’s leaning against the kitchen counter, the chequered shirt is open, there’s a grey T-shirt underneath, under that a bit of a belly. These small details are clever, aren’t they? “What’s my name then?”
“Frank,” I say, I have no idea why.
I walk with it to the sofa, bashful still, and catch myself in my mirror. I’m still in my work get-up, it’s important to be dressed up, for the video calls of course, but for sanity too. Distinction, that’s what we need in our days.
“So, Frank,” I say, as it hands me the tea. I really don’t think I’ve got decaf in, but apparently we’re pretending. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Well,” it says, or he says, I should probably say now. He paws at his cheek, and I like the way he’s sat: legs not too open, mug in his lap. The eyes: they’re bright blue. I haven’t seen blue like that in a long time. “I grew up outside Manchester, Bolton-way, my dad was a carpet layer. You ever laid a carpet, Debs? Oh, it’s something I tell you. Scoring up fabric, pushing down into the edge, everything taut. Beautiful work, carpet laying.”
“Native:pause_calibrate” I say. You’re not supposed to calibrate mid-simulation, it’s better to let the interaction progress a bit. Ride it out, is what the blogs advise, don’t become a tweaker. Just this once, though. Chattiness down to 75%. Sexual drive up to 60%. I like this one, might as well usher us along. “Native:unpause.”
“Anyway Debs, enough about me. What I really want to know is how a woman of your calibre gets through the day looking that good? I’d be checking myself out, not doing any work.”
“Frank!” I say, a little slap on his wrist. He puts his mug down, turns towards me. He moves his leg up and rests his foot across the other knee. Bit blokey, but the openness is welcome.
“What? It’s true. And I do like you, I like a bigger woman –”
“Native:pause_calibrate.” Chauvinism down to 3%.
“– all women, in fact, I cherish them Debs. A woman deserves respect. And I would never make any assumptions. No way.”
“Good,” I say, “anyway, let’s talk about something else.”
“Why don’t I ask you how you like your eggs?” he says, taking my hand in his.
I laugh, we’re going there. All right.
“Who says you’ll be around long enough to make my eggs? And, powdered. What else can we get?”
Frank nods like he knows about it. He can’t, he’s a machine.
“Eggs pre-fug. Oh I can remember them, a proper yolk. The music was better then too, the stuff they make today, it’s too calculated. You like music, Debs?”
He gets up, goes to the wall screen, plays some U2.
“Dance with me,” he says, already pulling me up. His arms are hard, but there’s a layer of soft over the muscle. It feels honest. We one-step, two-step, slowly, on the rug in the middle of the room. The lights dim, it feels like. This is nice, very nice. I hum a little into his shoulder. Except … U2. Not U2.
“Native:pause_calibrate.” Music taste to 98%. Make note: 90s boy bands especially.”
I can hear the whirring inside him.
“Here Debs,” he says, “let’s put on a bit of Boyzone, eh? The best stuff. They don’t make it like this any more.”
“Oh, Frank.”
No Matter What starts playing. Music, it takes me back, especially this stuff, being a young girl, back when we could go outside. I saw them once, Boyzone, in a stadium, I was only seven. I’ll tell Frank about it, maybe once we’re back on the sofa, after sex. I’m going to enjoy the sex with this one, I think I’ve found the balance.
“It’s my favourite, my absolute favourite,” he says, his temple to my temple, our fingers intertwined.
“Mine too, Frank,” I say, it’s barely a whisper.
“You’re a bit of all right, Debs, a bit of all right.”
I laugh a little, in my mouth, then swallow it. I’m smiling.
“Hold me, Frank.”
“I’m here now, Debs.”
“I’ve been so alone.”
We sway together, I’m falling into him. I want to forget this world. We all just want that. I don’t know how much time passes, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.
“It’s Ronan’s voice, he’s a real crooner,” he says.
“Mm.”
“So unique, those lungs.”
He’s going on a bit.
“Makes me weep,” he says, and I think he starts actually crying, there’s a sniffle in my ear. Over Ronan?
“I didn’t like his solo stuff as much –”
“Native:pause_calibrate.” Chattiness: reduce to 10%.
Just to shut him up. After this, no more adjustments. Not going to be a tweaker.
“There Frank, now we can just enjoy the moment.” I go temple to temple again, put my hand on his shoulder. I liked how he was leading. “Frank?”
Frank isn’t moving, his head’s gone limp. I flick him on the shoulder. That’s when I notice his grey hair is losing its colour, his features are melting away.
“Frank?”
Error 203: #VALUE! Reboot required.
“For God’s sake,” I say. It doesn’t say anything back. I hug it anyway, sway with it a little. I keep swaying with it, until the weight of it falls into me, and I lose my balance, for a moment.
(c) Tomek Mossakowski, 2021
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