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A Date With Solange West
Even in a dying world, dating is our one last shred of normalcy.
I put on the hazmat suit and don my red safety glasses for a touch of color against the white. When I’m all zipped in and ready to go, I check the environmental forecast on the screen, adjusting my oxygen intake before I go out into the elements. At least the forecast didn’t call for any more acid rain.
The walk to the nearest safe zone is less than a mile, but I still check the time on my bio-metric watch so that I don’t arrive late. At this time of day, though, I don’t think many people will be out: most individuals still link up to the System for eight to ten hours a day. That’s how we get the credits that allow our survival to continue.
Lucky for me, I was due a reprieve, and I arranged this meeting in the time off. Hey, at least it’s better than spending my time in the sensorial tank with its virtual reality of things that had once existed before this planet began to go belly-up.
I can’t remember the last time I touched someone’s skin, bare touch meeting without the obstacle of the suit’s protections.
When I arrive at my destination, I go inside the three sets of doors and affix my filter that shows how I would look without the suit. In my preview screen, I see a young woman in her…
