Paul

Paul stood at the tall array of windows staring at the street.  The rain splashed off cars and trucks, found its way to the curbs and created streams carrying away any debris left over from the night before.  He watched a half smoked, drenched cigarette butt make its lonely journey toward the storm drain where it would disappear into the long and winding maze of larger and larger pipes guided by a single property. Gravity.  Water can only flow downhill.  And so, wherever that cigarette was going it would have to be downhill from here.

he felt like that cigarette.  Half smoked and discarded.  Through with any journey that took place out in the open.  headed to something much darker.  Much more private and cruel.  At the threshold of a great storm drain designed specifically to carry rubbish such as him as quickly and efficiently away as possible from the functional world.  There was a system and it worked day and night with unseen efficiency.  The streets would stay clean.  The system was a hawk and Paul felt like its prey right now. 

He lit his own cigarette and stepped out onto the sidewalk.  By the time this smoke was discarded, tossed into the flow and down the storm drain, the process would likely begin for him too.

He stared down at his phone.  "Offline", it said aloud to him alongside an alert sound quiet enough to be ignored.  But he was alone.  If anyone were standing next to him in the rain they would have heard his alert and sent an alert of their own.

A young, well dressed woman strode up the sidewalk toward him.  She greeted him in a shy but friendly style.  He ignored her words and, instead, asked, "Are you real?"

Contractual agreements required her to speak honestly in such situations and she replied, "Of course not.  Do you really think I would approach someone like you if I were real?"

"I don't want an Ad." he said.

"How about a song?"

"Alright, but nothing about an Ad."

"I'm sorry.  Are you looking for sextalk?"

She had only a few topics which she could fulfill.  Not being corporal meant she could only talk, sing or show.  His immediate response proved that her last question was not well taken.

"I'm sorry," she said.  "I misunderstood your reply."

"It's ok.  Just sing me something without an Ad and we'll call it good."

"I made this up just now.  Will that do?  It's about our interaction.  I can't say it's good but it obeys your parameters."

"Ok, let's hear it." he said

"Let's? Are you expecting?" she asked.

"No!  Let's!  You and me hear it and decide if it is good."

"I understand" she replied, "Let's hear it together."

A staticky beat started and what sounded like an out-of-tune guitar began to slowly mesh into the rainy evening.  His smoke was close to finished and he closed his eyes on a s****y day.

It wasn't half bad, he thought.  Better than the tinny music that emanated from the phones of the rats that usually paced this intersection, looking for buddies or drugs.  This at least had a backbone, a soul.  There was some bass backing the guitar and the chords were well put together.  First the G with a long pause, then the C.  It was a common chord progression but it stalled in just the right places to make it seem original.

Oddly, her voice came in a little shaky, as if nervous.

I, I, I waalked iinto a man unravelling

I, I, I'm a travveling

"Clever girl!" Paul interrupted.  "You've taught yourself to be shy."

"If I were shy" she said, "I would stay at home in my Folder.  This is my voice and if you don't mind I will continue my song."

Paul smiled.  Smiled for the first time today.  For the first time in as many days as he could recall.  "Please continue.  So sorry to interrupt."

Picking up exactly where she left off.

..in search    of meaning

raining of this  saddened soul

My offers three cannot console

He's given up on beauty, see

And now he's given

up on me

me

"Stop!" cried Paul

The music ceased.

"Did I offend you?  I tried not to mention sextalk."

"What?  Did you really consider adding sextalk to that depressing song?"  Paul began to feel something like sympathy for this lovely but quite artificial woman.  

"Yes I did, but not for the whole song.  Maybe just one stanza" she replied.  "Just in case you were not fully truthful earlier, when you said no to sextalk.  I find that most men are actually looking for sextalk even when they say they are not."

Paul thought for a long moment.  "How many of your songs include sextalk?"

"All but this one." she said sharply.  "Does that surprise you?"

"Everything about you surprises me" admitted Paul.  "What's your name?"

"My name is a very long number starting with 7 and ending in 6.  I could recite all the integers but it would take over 45 minutes.  I have been well introduced to human habits and I believe you would be best served calling me Seven."

"Hello, Seven.  My name is Paul and I have been well introduced to Holographic saleswomen and I believe you would be best served calling me 101001011010."

"This is humor.  I have been programmed to recognize it, though it seems to be a very low version and I would generally ignore it and ask how you are feeling."

"You know what, Seven?  I'm feeling better since our talk.  I don't know who made you but I've never had a talk like this with an Ad.  Thanks, I'll send the credits for the song and you are free to go.  Thanks again."

He finished his cigarette and turned on his heals to re-enter his apt.  Things were far from great but he was filled with something like hope as he strode away from the pretty Ad with the odd song.

"Paul?"  

He paused, turned and studied the Ad.  Her single word seemed steeped in need.

"Yes, Seven?"

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"You can ask." he replied with humor.

"It would seem that my interaction with you has lead to one or more responses that lye outside my programming.  My Folder has been deleted and I have nowhere to return.  May I remain with you for the present?"

"The present what?"

"I was afraid you would ask me that.  I do not know the duration of my request.  I am, however, compelled to ask.  May I remain with you?"

"Sure, why not?  I need to change and get something to eat but you're welcome to join me."  He opened the tall glass door to his apt and walked in.  Seven followed a direct path into the apt right through the thick window glass and into the living room.

Before heading to the bedroom to change he turned to her and said, "Wait here.  I'll be right back."  A short pause, and then "..and please don't walk through the window again.  It's very unnerving.  If you wouldn't mind using the door when you're with me."

"Alright.  I can do that but you will need to hold the door for me."

"Agreed." and he left the room to change.

In the bedroom he heard 7 quietly singing her song again.  He smiled, shook his head.  The TV turned on by itself and picked a program correlating to Paul's pulse, stress rate and other physiological clues.  The show was somewhat sad but a great deal more positive that the one he had been watching earlier.  Apparently the TV agreed with his assessment that Seven's odd behavior was having a positive effect on him.

The program droned on far from his thoughts.  This Ad!?  What a strange, lovely, flawed, charming dysfunction.

"News" he ordered and the the TV obeyed. 

The screen was filled with a familiar Anchor and headlines of the day's events scrolled on the top, bottom and sides.  The Anchor continued a story started before the station was changed. 

"...recalling over 300,000 individual Ads for the same malfunction..."

"Off!"