September 2 – Disconnect

My name is Thomas Underwood. For seven years I have been happily married to an amazing woman. My Lizzie. I met her whilst on a business trip, attending a conference on workaday robotics. It wasn’t a case of love at first sight, nothing quite so sappy. But she had a wonderful laugh and a ready smile, and she was fun to be around, so we got to talking. In fact, we went out to dinner after the keynote, some fancy fusion restaurant with a huge outdoor dining area spread out over the side of one hill. It was then that I started to be captivated. She was more than capable of holding her own side of the discussion, and her conversation was stimulating and challenging. I think I thought more deeply that evening than I had for years beforehand. She was funny, too, and just the right kind of zany. I found myself telling her more about myself than I had to anyone else, even my closest friends, and hearing parts of her story in return. I knew I had to see more of her, and so we met up every so often, over coffee or lunch, and after a long chase I eventually got down on one knee. The scariest moment of my life. Her face gave nothing away, and a silence stretched out. I was sweating, I can tell you. She said yes.

There wasn’t much fanfare. We were attached, our close friends knew, and everyone else just found out in their own time. It was gratifying to see the faces of mutual friends when they put two and two together. It was the first time I had felt this way about someone. I spent as much time with her as I possibly could, though sometimes it seemed like our jobs were collectively conspiring to keep us apart), and we grew even closer together. Learning each other, the loves and the hates (pettish or otherwise), the strengths and weaknesses. In learning about her, her mistakes and her weaknesses, her faults (which were many, to be honest), I gained a newfound respect for her, which made my love blossom ever stronger. That’s not to say things were perfect, far from it. There was exasperation, annoyance, anger and pain aplenty. But somehow we always managed to work things out, and the good far outweighed the bad. Walking down the street holding hands, laughing as we dodged passers-by and their shopping drones, or resting my head in the crook of her neck and feeling the soft rhythm of her breathing. As time went by we grew into each other, becoming more entwined in each other. Then she left.

 It was very quick. She came to my house and sat me down, and we talked. Only for about ten minutes, and then I fetched some things she had left and gave them to her. She walked out of my door and up the street, and out of my life. I reached up behind my ear, pressed a button, and then went back to what I was doing. No big deal. Easy come, easy go, don’t they say? That was about two weeks ago, and work has been so hectic I wouldn’t have even been able to talk to her, so it really makes no difference, does it? Today marks the end of production, though, and the boss has called me into her office. I knock and she waves me in, smiling warmly as I sit down.
“Thomas, welcome. First up, I just wanted to say thank you for the work you’ve put in this past fortnight. I’m not going to say we couldn’t have done it without you, because that’s not true and we both know it. What I will say, however, is that your contribution was a great help, and definitely meant that the product we had at the end was far more polished and professional than if you hadn’t been on the project.”
I smile and nod my head. I like her because she’s honest, brutally so sometimes, but her praise means that much more.
“Now, I’m going to be terribly blunt here, but it has come to my attention that you’ve recently exited a relationship of no small duration. Is that so?”

It is, but I know it hasn’t affected me, or my work, and I tell her so.
“I know it hasn’t, and that’s actually what I’ve asked you here to talk about. In such an event, it is company policy to grant you five days of paid leave and up to four hours of professional counseling, to be used as you see fit over the next six month period. However, there is a caveat, and that is you are required to deactivate your emotional control implant, and are only authorised to reactivate it in circumstances where a genuine risk may be posed to yourself or others of sustaining harm as a result of its inactivation. This inactivation is mandatory due to government statute and studies showing severe adverse effects of long-term emotional suppression, but we will try to give you the help you need. Do you understand?”
I nod slowly.
“Then please deactivate and lock your implant now.”
I reach up. I’m a bit concerned about how this will affect my work, and of course I envision that I might start to have a reaction to things. I’ll have to do it if I want to keep my job, so I reach up and press a small sequence of buttons.

Nothing changes. I still feel fine, so I smile at the boss, give her a nod, and then head home. I guess I was worrying too much, I honestly thought I’d feel worse than this. I get home, toss the keys in their bowl and run a glass of water. Now that the project is done, I can get around to all the little chores that had been neglected in the meantime. I take a load of laundry out to the line and start pegging sheets up. The wind blows one against my face, and I think of the way Liz would press her face through the sheet into mine, and the short kisses we would share before collapsing in laughter with dry mouths. My hands still on the line, sheet sighing against my cheek. I feel something in my chest, something indescribable. A frown creases my forehead, and I feel my throat close over. I blink, and a hot tear tracks down my face. I spasm, from somewhere deep within, each followed by another and another and I’m holding onto this clothesline for dear life, my body wracked with heaving sobs. She’s gone, she’s gone and I’ll never feel her face through this sheet. Never hear the wonderful sound of her laughter as she laughs at one of my goofy jokes. Never again see her eyes filled with love, or with concern, or with endeared exasperation. Never again will I see her smile that is just for me, or hear my voice said in that particular way that makes me feel like I might just be something special. All I can do is stand here, pressing this wet sheet to my cheek like the empty shell of a broken promise, as a dull headache starts behind my eyes and tears stream down my face. It feels like something has been torn inside me, it feels like I’m bleeding slowly from one thousand little tears. Nothing is right with this world, and I know that nothing can ever fix this.