Ty, a shift manager with an alcoholic wife, creates a female replicant in a dystopia veering toward full mechanization. For Ty, the surreal drudgery of working in a retail environment is interrupted when robotic interfaces are installed at his job...
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Ty stared at the bottle.
And stared.
The clear plastic seemed too judgmental, as it had been half-full only an hour before.
"You dunno me," he slurred.
Sam had known him. But of course, she was him, and would therefore know him the best.
"And now she's gone," Ty informed the judgmental bottle.
He was draped on the couch, one arm propped to hold up and stare at his only friend.
"You're cheap, but'chur alrigh'."
He panicked a bit when the bedroom door opened. In a drunken second, he prepared an elaborate lie on how he had thought the bottle was full of soda.
After a moment, Jennifer nor Damon swept into the living room to demand what he was doing at 3am. Ty realized the noise of the bedroom door was actually the AC kicking on.
His bravado sunk. How quickly he had turned to a lie. And it hadn't even been a good one.
The truth was much too complicated. Ty had rolled over, surveyed his sleeping (semi) wife, and had crept from the bedroom to the kitchen.
As quietly as possible, he had searched the cabinets and corners of the kitchen. Jennifer stashed bottles away, and he wanted to ensure the (semi) Jennifer didn't encounter temptation. Then, under the trash can under the sink, he'd discovered a half-empty bottle of rum.
His favorite drink, while Jennifer didn't care either way. To her, all drinks were equal.
Ty went to pour it down the sink, and started screwing the cap off. Until he thought about the way (semi) Jennifer had reached for him in the bed, wrapping her arm around him tightly, snaking down and down...
He had jerked away from her, snapping about how tired he was. Truth was, he'd immediately stiffened (in good an bad ways) at her touch. Only, he couldn't see himself going through with it. She was an echo of his wife, not really his wife. She was his semi-wife. How could he do anything with her? It was worse than cheating. It was a sanction of the murder of his real wife.
Ty stared through the bottle, wishing it was full. Wishing the smooth burn could erase his thoughts of the real and semi Jennifer.
I need it gone.
Gone.
The word triggered another dark truth: Sam was gone.
Finally, he dropped the bottle, the plastic thumping softly on the carpet. Sam hadn't been murdered, not like Jennifer. The State was just holding her.
"I can do sumthen 'bout that," Ty told the bottle.
He stood, taking a moment to steady himself. When the world wasn't entirely spinning anymore, he treaded lightly to the hallway. The walls made for great support, and he took full advantage, leaning like a man in need.
And he was in need. He needed Sam.
At Damon's bedroom door, he didn't bother knocking. This was too important to wake everyone else. Ty slowly turned the knob and eased the door open. He half-stumbled, half-stealth walked to Damon's bed before depositing himself there.
Always a light sleeper, Damon stirred but didn't fully wake. Not until Ty brushed his shoulder, then shook once, twice.
