Beautiful Eyes

Fuck these bitches, I think to myself while wearing a big, friendly smile. I walk over for an unscheduled check-in.

"Ah, Blue Fifty-Two with that retro sound," I say cheerfully, referencing the group's competitive code. "Linda, no surprise you're still near the top. Hopefully, Margie will take chargie and give you a run for your money."

Linda accepts the flattery, and the little old-world idiom. She makes it quite clear what she thinks of Margie's chances, though.

"How's ya girlfriend?" Dakota sleazes out. She's my least-unfavorite, though the hypocrisy rankles. Her 'free social' hours are filled to the brim with sex that's as gross and sad as it is impressive. I don't peep, ever, but if I were going to, it'd only be to see how in the holy hell it even works.

"Don't have a girlfriend," I reply, tapping my head. It's going to be my new thing. It feels right.

"Oh, come on, Dexter," Linda says. "That's not really true."

"Au contraire, domino-atrix extraordinaire," I reply. "It is really true. What it's not is pretend... ly true."

Linda's sharp. She's a total witch to the other ladies, which is why I hate her, but we have a weirdly civil relationship. "Huh. That's a little bit clever. What's gotten into you?"

Dakota chuckles like a perv again, which substitutes fine for the obvious joke: fake girl cock and fake cum. Margie and Brenna both pretend to be mortified, but they're secretly loving it.

Linda scoffs again, but, rather tellingly, she's no longer pressuring anybody to focus on the game. "You seem like a nice boy," she says. "With this little spring in ya step, go out and make some new friends. A new lady friend, maybe. Just tell them you did a weird study for extra social. Young people are always doing that stuff."

"But the robot, Linda," Brenna says. Her and Margie could be sisters. They both do the fake whisper thing. It's awful.

"Weird study! We just handled it!"

"Okay, ladies," I interject, "as happy as I am to keep chatting, first, let's take care of you. Does anybody need drinks? Snacks? Everyone feeling okay?"

That last one's secret code for an awful lot of awful things. I'm just as bitter and butthurt as the next guy about not being an immortal cybernetic space delivery boy, but I'm grateful for the machines and true AI that manage, shall we say, the inevitable vagaries of aging. Dakota, ironically, is the most continent of the group, though rumor has it she likes to pretend otherwise during 'free social' time. Linda wears special underwear day and night, and will raise hell if I don't keep to the coded language. Margie and Brenna are already racking up the wires and tubes something fierce. I guess it's worth appending the description: we all want to be cool and awesome cyborgs. Most of us end up really sad ones, eventually.

"Margie?" Linda asks. "You need anything? I don't want to hear any excuses when I beat you."

"It's fine," she insists.

"Oh, what do you think he's going to do, you scaredy-cat?" Linda snaps. "Do you need a little candy? A juice? Honestly. It's what he's here for!" She looks up and waves her hand all around, and slips even deeper into her accent. "The air's fulla all the angels and the saints watchin' over us, for real, for the first time evah! Rub ya rosary latah!"

"Hey," I say. "Too far." I do The Voice. This is my job, after all. I'm pretty good at it.

Linda waves again and looks everywhere human eyes aren't. She gives in, though. The Voice is powerful. "Sorry," she says, and the accent's mostly gone. "Too far with the rosary crack. You do whatever makes you happy with that. What I meant to say was, have some juice and let's play already."

There's a pause -- just long enough to give a rookie hope that everyone's settled. Not me.

"I could have a juice," Margie says.

"I could, too," Brenna adds.

"None for me, champ," Dakota wheezes.

"Well, you're going anyway," Linda says, "so maybe something to snack on, too. Allergies? Anybody? Oh, Dexter's got it. It's fine."

I do, after a fashion, because the AI does. With another friendly smile and another hateful thought to match, I go get the ladies their order.

"Yeesh," Brendan says, sidling up to me as I hit the attached mini-cafeteria. "You seriously just walked right into it."

"Yeah, it's a new thing I'm trying," I reply. "Headfirst... something. Still don't have a name." I punch in the orders. It'll only take a minute, but Brendan's going to make it count. He moves around like he actually has something to do in here. I don't know if it fools our ever-watchful overlords or not, but he is really good at it. He's got that non-stick coating on him; he was the kid who never got into trouble at school, no matter how much trouble he got up to. Nuanced distinction.

"Totally get it," he says. "Walk into a room and act like you've got the biggest dick and don't even care."

Brendan's 'headfirst' gay. He's a bit much, but he's probably my least-unfavorite coworker.

"So," he asks coyly, "how was your weekend?"

"Weird and stressful," I tell him. "I had company over. Bess. You probably don't know her."

"Well she's not a gay guy and she doesn't work here, so no, probably not. Wait. Is it my mom, using an alias? You'd tell me, right?"

"Well, she's not a resident here, so probably not."

"Ugh! Bitch!" He pretends to slap me. "I like the new you. Still: spill. You're legally required too, like, literally."

"Eh, technically I'm not, since it involves a third party. But since I like you so much, feel free to imagine plenty of cringey scenarios."

"Threesome gone wrong. Lots of crying and apologizing. Got it."

I shrug. "Call it halfsies. Surprisingly little crying and apologizing. Some sex. Not me."

"Oh god. Fake cucked by a fake dickgirlfriend and a girl who's a friend but not a girlfriend yikes." No, he doesn't pause where he should. "Well, congrats on still being the most interesting person I know for literally one reason only. All the eggs up in that basket case of yours."

The juice and snacks for the ladies come out on a tray. "One of these days I'm going to sidle up to you and give you the third degree," I tell him.

"Oh hey, look at that, I have to be somewhere else. By-eeeeee!"

I head back into the gaping maw. Margie and Brenna are impatient. Linda and Dakota forgot all about me. The drinks and snacks are enough to smooth everything over. I help the gruesome twosome open everything up without spilling. The snacks are wafers of some kind -- reasonably healthy, flavorful enough, not too dry, and big enough so nobody's going to choke on one -- well, until they take a bite. That's one of life's great mysteries, probably solved by a matrix or table somewhere. Just because something's big enough before you bite it, which you obviously will, it's suddenly way less of a choking hazard on the books.

"I mean, you could find a nice boy," Linda says offhandedly with a shrug. She lets her face get a little sour as she glances in the direction Brendan scurried off in. "Maybe not him, though. It's just not a good fit."

"I think we're all on the same page, there, Linda," I reply. "Everything looks good over here. Linda, good board, but don't get cocky. Ladies?"

There's muttering and murmuring. Linda gets bitchy. "Thank you, Dexter," she says pointedly, asserting her position as the table's alpha.

Dakota, Brenna, Margie fall in line. I get halfhearted gratitude all around.

"Always a pleasure," I lie, and then I'm off to another table.

"But I don't understand what's wrong with him," Margie says. It comes out as almost a question. I've decided that loud whispers are just how she talks. Maybe the juice will help. Maybe she'll choke on it and die.

I know how to keep my mouth shut, but I'm forever replying in my head. That makes one of us, bitch. I'm a fucking loser. It's a medical condition. Fuck you, and goodnight.

Two and half more hours of this bullshit. After that, it's time for a different flavor: after-work socializing. I go out almost every afternoon-into-evening. You know what I used to call people who did that voluntarily? I'll give you one guess.

Selena's in her pod, and I envy her so much.

**********

Brendan's shy at the bar. I seriously think he does it on purpose, just so he'll have more drama to vaguely whinge about later. What do I know, though? Maybe he's just the gay me. Maybe he doesn't have sex mojo, and so just keeps crashing and burning. He gets very skittish and twitchy. It's like he doesn't know how to move around a room when he doesn't have any responsibilities to duck. I bet if he got into a relationship, he'd be darting around the city and getting away with all sorts of shit.

Jayden's holding court a few booths down; Rosalina and Angelica are attending. I was having a drink with Adam and Cynthia, but they melted away somewhere. I didn't take it personally. They're trying to figure out whether they want to fuck each other. They should, even though they'd make a crappy couple. I've gotten very pro-sex inside of my own head as of late -- even more so than I used to be.

I'm also developing a bit of a sixth sense when it comes to my bouts of public humiliation. I feel one coming. I don't know who it's going to be. I just know they're on their way. They're going to slide into my otherwise-empty booth, right across from me, lean in, and take full advantage of my contract with BeautifulEyes, Inc.

It's a woman -- thirty to forty. She's cute, but not hot. She's a little short, and a little bit round everywhere, but not overweight; that's much less of a thing than it was fifty years ago. She's dressed like the rest of us, so she probably does the same kind of job -- maybe a nurse or counselor instead of an elder attendant.

"Hey," she says. That's a minor victory. She didn't blitz me.

I take a sip of my overpriced, barely-unhealthy, barely-alcoholic drink. "Should I introduce myself?" I ask.

She shrugs. "It's okay. I'm Aislin. Nurse over at the rehab annex. We probably swap patients sometimes without even knowing it."

"Probably," I agree. "Buy you a drink?"

She shakes her head. She doesn't want the stink of it on her. "No -- I mean, I was going to ask if I could buy you another? And I have one coming." That doesn't make me wrong about the stink thing. She's offering to buy me a guilt drink or a pity drink. The game is nuanced. Intention and directionality both matter.

"Geez, I'm not really sure how to take that."

She blushes and looks away. Her eyes are shy and guilty. I've gotten better at spotting all the various emotions these past few months. She's not into me. That's a stone-cold fact.

I let her off the hook. "These things are terrible," I say, raising my glass, "by which I mean, they're so blandly inoffensive that they're offensive. Buy me kids' glue and sawdust and tell me I'm a disappointment to my parents, why don't you?"

That gets her to look at me again -- like I have two heads. I'm embracing it. I'm the funny guy who's a little weird, so maybe the jokes are going over your head; maybe it's your own fault you're not laughing. I think it's a phase. Zelda agrees it might be a phase. If I crash, whatever. She'll be there, and so will Selena.

"I mean, they're not bad," she says. "I get the fruitier ones."

Of course she does. The bar's one human employee walks her drink over to her. He likes her, and wants to get with her. She's not quite oblivious to it, but hasn't decided if she's going to officially notice. That's a fun decision tree to think about: notice or don't notice? If the former, which signal to send? If the latter, will she suddenly swoon when the bartender makes a more obvious move? I weigh the odds that she's a secret slut -- that, contrary to every bit of body language I've seen so far, she'll throw caution to the wind and go fuck him later tonight. He's a young, good-looking dude. I think he has some mojo.

"This happens to you a lot," she says, taking her first sip.

I smile. "All part of the deal."

"I'm sorry," she says. "I guess what I really want to ask is, are you okay?"

Eighty percent chance she's a religious nut.

I shrug. "You're cute, Aislin. Would you like to come back to my place? You could meet Selena. We could all have a good time together -- or just me and you. What do you say?"

"No!" she replies quickly. She senses that she fell into some kind of a trap, but she doesn't understand its shape or mechanisms. I don't fault her. I've had too many of these conversations. I'm a pro. I just skipped a solid three minutes of back and forth, including a lot of very nasty, very bitter stuff that nobody in their right mind would ever say, lest their soft social plummet down to nothing.

I'm still playing a dangerous game, of course, but she's the one who sat down at my booth, introduced herself, and kinda-sorta offered to buy me a drink.

I shrug, and take another sip. Now that the game's started, there's no way to do that naturally. Instead, I'm trying to perform a psychological trick. I'm trying to get her to associate my draining glass with a timer that's counting down. When I finish the drink, we're done, and I go home. She does not come home with me. That was never a potential outcome. Skipping ahead makes a lot of sense.

"Sorry," she says. "That was a little mean. But it was also a little forward on your part. I understand, though. You're trying to get rid of me."

"Well," I say, "I must not be trying very hard if I'm inviting you over."

"You know that's not how it works."

"It works however you want it to work. Well, okay, I guess your soft social might've taken a hit because it's me, specifically. But you never know. Surely you can imagine some spin: 'there's hope for him yet! Maybe she's not a pervert, but a saint. Normalcy wins! Sex robots lose!'"

"Do you love her?"

I give her an invisible Dexter Point for the pivot. I'm undecided on giving her another one for using "her" instead of "it." There's a lot that could be going on behind the scenes with that.

"Do you love your... dog?" I ask.

I can tell I guessed right. My hit rate when it's a woman is really good as to whether they have a pet at all, but only fifty-fifty on what kind. I'm great with dogs versus cats, but the birds, turtles, and fish depress my average. With guys, I barely ever try the line. They're totally unpredictable.

"It's not the same," she says.

I shrug and take another sip. "The company says they're not even pets. I'm not so sure I agree with that. But what's the difference? Honest question, not rhetorical."

"Obligation," she says. She had that one ready. She's a thinker, or somebody's parrot. What a funny parallel to people and Beautiful Lies. "Person or pet. The obligations matter. They're what build character and trust."

"But what if I'm the one that needs taking care of?" I ask. I try to balance the seriousness and the snark. "What if there's something wrong with me? Something missing? Who's obligated to me? Who builds up their character and earns my trust?"

"There's nothing wrong with you," she says. Her tone doth protest too much, but in her defense, she has some evidence to support her position. My soft social is public, and it's pretty good. She can make an inference about my solid score from my job and my general demeanor, plus or minus any weird expenses.

I smile. "Social, right? You know, I could say something poetic, like, 'Can everything be measured, though?' But you know what? I've been in the belly of a very strange beast, and I actually think everything can be. I just think the true AI know we're not ready to live with some of those metrics and values."

"That's very sad."

"There's no official name for my condition," I tell her. "Yet. My therapist calls it a lack of sexual mojo. I just call myself a loser."

That really upsets her. I wave it off while taking another calculated sip. She's barely touched her drink. It's blending and melting into a bluish-gray sludge. It's a pity. She probably paid way too much for it.

"Aislin, here's what I can tell you: I'm fitter. I'm happier. More productive? Well, let's not push it. I sleep better. I'm sexually satisfied. I'm fairly well emotionally satisfied -- romantically satisfied, let's say. I've even got a few friends -- real, live human ones, if it means that much to you. I became a minor celebrity for all the wrong reasons, lost my job, went through a lawsuit, got a new job, and hang out at bars a whole lot even though I've been an introvert my whole life and really do not think I'm getting my social's worth out of these drinks. On top of all of that, I have to tell anybody who asks all about my sex life. And for all that, you know what? I'm okay. I'm doing okay.

"What's the variable?" I ask rhetorically. "It's my Beautiful Lie. I'm still just as much of a loser as I was six months, a year, five years, ten years ago, minus what age does to us all. Maybe someday the AI will release the numbers that define and quantify what's wrong with me. I'm glad I didn't have to wait. I got help -- the only help that's ever helped."

"'Beautiful Lie?'" she echoes. Then it hits her. "Oh. The company's called... I don't like that."

I nod, because I get why she doesn't. I take one more sip. She's letting me steamroll her. "Were you ever going to believe me?" I ask. "Unless I'd said 'no, I'm not okay?'"

I'm thinking about that eighty percent chance; I'm wondering if something like "Thou shalt not lie" is tying a little knot inside of her head and she's trying to find some way to untie it -- maybe even thinking about slashing through it. There's always a greater good, right?

"I guess not," she says. I give her one more Dexter Point. She looks at her drink, and decides it's not happening. She looks back to me. "If you ever need to talk to someone, you can look me up. Open offer."

"Thank you," I say, setting aside all the snark. "Mine is, too." That makes her uncomfortable, and I try not to look too self-satisfied. Was my lack of snark calculated, or sincere? Let's say both. Let's dance some more.

My glass is empty. She slides out of the booth, leaving her drink behind. I don't blame her. It looks super gross. I don't think she's going to fuck the bartender. Part of me is a little sad for her that she's probably not going to fuck anybody. Then I start wondering if she's got a sex toy at home. That's one of those things I don't bring up and throw in people's faces, obviously. It doesn't matter how relevant it is. The mob spoke, long ago: no traction. Loser talk.

I can hardly believe it, but my radar pings again almost immediately. I shake my head and laugh.

Another woman slides into my booth. She's closer to thirty. She's not as cute as Aislin, but she's hotter. She's dressed up a little more. She's tall, and she's thick. Her brown eyes are intense, not soft. The black brows above them are perfectly sculpted, and kick up that intensity one more notch. Her dark hair is long, thick, wavy, and shiny. She's sending serious signals. I nod -- more to the universe than to her.

"I overheard," she says. "Sorry. Boundary issues, especially at bars. And yes, I know who you are. I'm Olivia. Romance languages and literature at the university."

"Lovely to meet you, Olivia," I say. "Buy you a drink? I was going to, uh, take care of that one anyway, and my mine's empty."

She eyes the sludge and laughs. "Overpriced garbage, sí? Like I said, I overheard. You were forward. I like that. I don't know if I like you, but I'm very curious. I'd be willing to take some chances."

"Music to my ears," I tell her. "Your place or mine?"

"Yours, claro," she says. "I want to take a lot of chances -- two, at least."

"Melody and harmony," I say. She doesn't get it. It's fine. It was lame.