Sensitivity

The lady wakes up dishevelled and alone. This is the most difficult part of her day, the getting up, the decision to wake up and deal with it all.

What is 'it all?' you ask and I tell you to be patient! You'll see, you'll pity and admire this darling dame by the end of it all.

She staggers upright and pulls on a nearby sweater. A presence senses her movement and begins to warm its fluids in anticipation of her needs.

The tap water is cold. The very apartment is cold, so white it gleams even in the pale morning. It was supposed to uplift her, enlighten her, this white on white on white. She feels hospitalized.

She presses a white button on the bedroom wall and immediately a steaming cup of coffee materializes from within a compartment of the wall. She wakes up with the rush of caffeine, like the right wave hitting a kayaker stranded on the rocks. She sits down on her comfy swivel chair and looks out the window at a view of misted mountains and placid waters. It's a breathtaking view, but to her it's a painting occasionally disrupted by a tugboat or storm. She faces her computer.

"Hello," she says in a mechanical, half-dead voice.

The machine sparkles into being.

"Good morning, Susan!" it cries cheerily. The damn computer technician set the personality, perhaps it's one he thought she'd enjoy, but she's beginning to wonder if it was actually a cruel joke. "Ready for your check-up, beautiful?"

She takes the electrode from its holder, moistens it with a handy baby wipe, and suctions it on the base of her skull.

"Ready," she moans.

"Let's see..." the computer answers thoughtfully, "you're feeling quite tired!"

"No shit."

"Oh, look at that! Your grumpiness levels just spiked. Uh-oh, gotta watch those! However, your blood pressure is normal--for you, that is."

"Uh-huh."

"Your spleen is having a rough time, though, along with your liver. And I sense anxiety, Susan. What's wrong?"

"Nuthin."

"How'd you sleep?"

"Okay."

"Did you dream?"

"Uh... yeah."

"What of, dear?"

She groans, tempted to tell the thing to shut the fuck off and mind its own business. Unfortunately, though, its business is her.

"The purple scarf."

"Ah, of course, all those nasty thought residues I'm picking up all make sense now.... Your anger levels just rose, Susan! Is it me? Did I offend you? Feel free to change my programming!"

"Just get on with it."

"I'll log and print out the full report of your thoughts, feelings, moods, and health levels."

"Fine. Goodbye."

She turns back to the painting full of drifting mist with the odd feeling that something--something massive and subtle--is ridiculously wrong.

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