Compression tights slashed by cutaway sections filled with black nylon mesh, a loose shirt that hangs off one shoulder, a tattoo there on the exposed pale white flesh. A tribal and technological design, something she regrets but isn’t ashamed to show off. Boots, of course, but low and flat. Practical. Hair that looks wet, greasy. Eyes dusted with coal, black that could’ve been sprayed on or punched in. Heavy bags sag below, but brightness gleams above.
She carries no satchel, and her garments have no pockets. RFID, then? Subdermal ports. Does she have to eat? Her skin glistens and glows, and she looks a lot realer than you feel, but there’s something cold and mechanical in the way she carries herself. You can’t ask her if she’s artificial. That would be rude.
She’s always on time. She always does what she says she’s going to do. She’s the most reliable thing in your life, and you’ve taken her for granted every single day that you’ve known her. She doesn’t mind, though, but that doesn’t make it any better. How far would she go for you? Why is she even helping you in the first place? These are the questions that keep you up at night, chain-smoking in a habit that’s been out of style for decades. She likes to remind you that they’re going to kill you, and you hope she’s talking about the cigarettes.
The city is a stone, and the two of you have been squeezing blood from it for the better part of a year.
First draft: 150325
Published: 231016