Dating : Ted Smith was running numbers on his smartwatch.

Ted Smith was running numbers on his smartwatch. He turned the digital dial to raise the air conditioning, but the backpiece burned hot from the mining program he was trying to run in the background.

Ted needed toothpaste like, yesterday. He’d already caught himself weighting out micrograms, subtracting the weight of the brush and trying to come up with a perfect formula for foaming action. Tonight would be the night he’d have to cut the tube to get those precious grams of tartar protection from the patented anti-scrape zig-zag “grip wall” that all the major manufacturers had switched to in his twenties.

Anything could be bought for a couple thousand bits, though, and today was a great day for trying to reach such a goal. 93 and sunny with a viral load of 49% didn’t equal to Ted leaving the house. He’d rather spend the day watching his wrist run calculations than take a risk outside.

His watch was overheating on his wrist, but he only impulsively ripped it off as a pulse signalling a new message tickled down his arm. He thought the thing was finally going to blow. Hitting the wall, the poor machine finally died. With it, his prospects as well.

The notification rerouted to his phone and the inner ear implant everyone under the age of fifity-five recieved. Contractual obligations thumping into his temple.

Ted was hoping for a friendly burst of text, but as he checked the screen, it was only another program. DashDash had replaced most of the other serious competitors of both delivery and gig labour. His account was being notified that a drone was five minutes away with his instructions to take some package on it’s final leg of a global journey.

Ted bit his lower lip and knew he was behind on his DD subscription, he owed the company at least half of his delivery fee. But the other half…well he could order his toothpaste and complete the cycle. His resistance was moot. Ted didn’t have an option to reject, so he accepted the offer.

Exacting to the second, the drone let it’s self in via his automatic entry way. Ted was just getting his shoes on, but made a mad leap for his filtration mask and strapped it to his face within moments. 49% probably meant at least 70% chance of catching the virus again. Getting sick was something he couldn’t afford right now, nor was dying. Ted was behind on that service subscription, too. The mask covered his face completely, polarized lens cut across in a semi-circle, with a muzzle that sported two fine grain filters. 99% effective against pollution, bacteria, and viruses, four stars on DashDash’s virtual store. He hoped this equalled out to a satisfactory protection from a momentary gust of natural air.

The drone scanned his face, didn’t find it, and then pinged the chip imbedded into his federal identification card. The card was helpfully slipped into a protective slot on his mask for just such purposes. Then it gently released its charge: a -sized box of enviro-foam, with a tamper-resistant seal.

Ted accepted the package. He could tell it was a food delivery by the “CAUTION: DRY ICE” printed on the outside. The starting code told him it was Indian take-out, direct from Punjabi, and the ending code was typical for a certain part of Brooklyn he barely could afford to bar-hop in. Some rich upstart hipster was getting the most authentic tandoori chicken, and he was taking it cross town for the cheapest toothpaste. He sighed and loaded the order onto his bike, scanned the end code with his phone, and put on the navigation.

He only had to rev the bike for the AI to take over, zipping him along in the bike lane. Ted zoned out as he leaned into each precise turn.

**

The house was familiar in its’ disheveled state, Ted’s daze was broken as he realized this fact. He’d been here six months ago for New Year’s — this was Kitty’s cooperative house. Kitty, as he remembered, was still mad at him for making out with her lastest gay boyfriend in the bathroom that night. Apparently, some unspoken rules had been broken, despite her insistence that her now-ex had been free to do as he pleased.

Ted didn’t quite follow all of Kitty’s stupid rules, just like he had never quite understood how she lived in this mansion with twenty other art queers, sustained on grants and parties, and yet somehow no one ever could wash the dishes, or hold a “real job.” Well, whatever counted for one these days, Ted sighed to himself and walked the bike towards the house.

Kitty always liked to complain loudly about being broke, yet here he was, showing up on-demand with a delivery that must have cost “only” a few hundred dollars.

Ted parked his bike by the installation he’d helped assemble for their party. He remembered Kitty fully embodying “creative director”, having specific instructions for each little strand of LED bead. It was motion-activated, and the large curtain of beads swayed in the breeze, still lighting up messages like “FUCK OFF” and “LOVE YOURSELF”; It shouted in twinkle lights “STAY HYDRATED SHIT-BAG” as Ted passed by.

He knocked on the door.