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Authors: Peter Tylee
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dermal-hydration treatment. But for all that, her teeth were white,
despite her daily regime of seven cups of coffee. And her eyes
sp a rkl ed intensely
blue – bluer than even contact lenses could make them. Ironically,
her irises were real, though nobody believed it.
Her black suit
bulged in places it oughtn’t and lacked volume in places
she would’ve preferred it. She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but
she wasn’t yet ready to give in and rigidly stuck to her routine in
the gym. Absently she felt her bicep; it felt strong under the
flabby padding. But, infuriatingly, the firmness of the muscle
tended to highlight the ocean of blubber on top. She grunted
disgustedly and shifted her thoughts back out the
window.
San Francisco
looked beautiful in the twilight, no matter what any of the others
said. But she wasn’t ready to pack up and head home yet, the day
had only just begun to get interesting. Besides, there was
depressingly little for her to go home to – her cute little mixed-breed dog,
Sasha, and the mounting pile of dishes. She needed a technician to fix her dishwasher and made a mental
note to call one.
Her buzzer honked and the
tiny strobe light attached to the communication panel started to
flash. She decided it would have to go; the damn thing gave her a
headache whenever it went off.
“ Yes?” She
snapped irritably.
“ Paul Savage here to see you.” Joanne’s
voice sounded clear through the latest in speaker
technology. They’ve gone too far this
time, Jackie thought, annoyed that she
couldn’t pin down the source of the sound. It made everything sound
larger than life, almost as though the voices came from inside her
head.
“ Send him in.”
Jackie pushed back from her desk with a sigh and waited, less than
patiently.
Her massive
wooden doors, intricately carved with Michelangelo’s cherubs, swung
ponderously inward and Paul Savage shuffled into the room.
She’d never met a man with a weaker spine or less direction in life. She noted,
with irritation, that he didn’t bother to hide his grey hair. And
he’d clearly given up fighting the spare tyre sagging around his
middle. It’s easy for
men. She hated it, but it was still true.
Even in the socially conscious ‘60s, women had be beautiful while
men could let themselves go. Seven decades of social commentators
hadn’t yet raised enough public awareness of what her favourite
author had called The Beauty Myth. Typical, Jackie thought. The public is so stupid.
“ Yes?” She
tried to pre-empt his rambling greeting.
“ Uh – yes. Uh…
hello, Jackie.”
She’d obviously
failed.
“ I have some…
things that I’d like you to, uh, take a look at. Uh, if you
wouldn’t mind?”
Jackie fought the urge to
sigh and stifled it into a semi-normal breath. “What is
it?”
Paul ambled to her desk,
zigzagging inefficiently. Inefficiency tended to be his
hallmark.
He looks
drunk. Jackie wondered whether he’d spent
the day in a bar and tested the air with her nose, trying to detect alcohol on his
breath.
Paul often look ed drunk,
though he partook in alcoholic beverages strictly after work and
restrained himself to a glass of wine with dinner. He was once a
real boozer until the doctors warned him that what was left of his
pathetic balance would dissolve entirely if he kept it up. The
alcohol was sustaining a strain of bacteria that feasted on
something in his inner ear. They’d tried antibiotics with little
success; it was one of the resistant strains. Experts blamed the
prevalence of antibacterial products and over-prescription of
antibiotics in the late twentieth century. The practice had lasted
until the ‘30s when antibiotics finally lost their kick. Paul
didn’t really have anyone to blame but himself, or society’s
selfish ways. After all, he’d used antibacterial soap,
antibacterial dishwashing liquid and antibacterial household
cleaners just like everybody else. And so the bacteria in Paul Savage’s
dermal-hydration treatment. But for all that, her teeth were white,
despite her daily regime of seven cups of coffee. And her eyes
sp a rkl ed intensely
blue – bluer than even contact lenses could make them. Ironically,
her irises were real, though nobody believed it.
Her black suit
bulged in places it oughtn’t and lacked volume in places
she would’ve preferred it. She knew she was fighting a losing battle, but
she wasn’t yet ready to give in and rigidly stuck to her routine in
the gym. Absently she felt her bicep; it felt strong under the
flabby padding. But, infuriatingly, the firmness of the muscle
tended to highlight the ocean of blubber on top. She grunted
disgustedly and shifted her thoughts back out the
window.
San Francisco
looked beautiful in the twilight, no matter what any of the others
said. But she wasn’t ready to pack up and head home yet, the day
had only just begun to get interesting. Besides, there was
depressingly little for her to go home to – her cute little mixed-breed dog,
Sasha, and the mounting pile of dishes. She needed a technician to fix her dishwasher and made a mental
note to call one.
Her buzzer honked and the
tiny strobe light attached to the communication panel started to
flash. She decided it would have to go; the damn thing gave her a
headache whenever it went off.
“ Yes?” She
snapped irritably.
“ Paul Savage here to see you.” Joanne’s
voice sounded clear through the latest in speaker
technology. They’ve gone too far this
time, Jackie thought, annoyed that she
couldn’t pin down the source of the sound. It made everything sound
larger than life, almost as though the voices came from inside her
head.
“ Send him in.”
Jackie pushed back from her desk with a sigh and waited, less than
patiently.
Her massive
wooden doors, intricately carved with Michelangelo’s cherubs, swung
ponderously inward and Paul Savage shuffled into the room.
She’d never met a man with a weaker spine or less direction in life. She noted,
with irritation, that he didn’t bother to hide his grey hair. And
he’d clearly given up fighting the spare tyre sagging around his
middle. It’s easy for
men. She hated it, but it was still true.
Even in the socially conscious ‘60s, women had be beautiful while
men could let themselves go. Seven decades of social commentators
hadn’t yet raised enough public awareness of what her favourite
author had called The Beauty Myth. Typical, Jackie thought. The public is so stupid.
“ Yes?” She
tried to pre-empt his rambling greeting.
“ Uh – yes. Uh…
hello, Jackie.”
She’d obviously
failed.
“ I have some…
things that I’d like you to, uh, take a look at. Uh, if you
wouldn’t mind?”
Jackie fought the urge to
sigh and stifled it into a semi-normal breath. “What is
it?”
Paul ambled to her desk,
zigzagging inefficiently. Inefficiency tended to be his
hallmark.
He looks
drunk. Jackie wondered whether he’d spent
the day in a bar and tested the air with her nose, trying to detect alcohol on his
breath.
Paul often look ed drunk,
though he partook in alcoholic beverages strictly after work and
restrained himself to a glass of wine with dinner. He was once a
real boozer until the doctors warned him that what was left of his
pathetic balance would dissolve entirely if he kept it up. The
alcohol was sustaining a strain of bacteria that feasted on
something in his inner ear. They’d tried antibiotics with little
success; it was one of the resistant strains. Experts blamed the
prevalence of antibacterial products and over-prescription of
antibiotics in the late twentieth century. The practice had lasted
until the ‘30s when antibiotics finally lost their kick. Paul
didn’t really have anyone to blame but himself, or society’s
selfish ways. After all, he’d used antibacterial soap,
antibacterial dishwashing liquid and antibacterial household
cleaners just like everybody else. And so the bacteria in Paul Savage’s
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