BLUE
I stand by the window in my office, looking out over the city. The skyscraper I own is one of the tallest in the area, so very little blocks my view of the horizon.
I stare off into the distance, and I’m not entirely sure why I don’t return to my laptop, even though I know there’s an important email I need to write.
Instead, I keep gazing out over the city, and something about that emptiness echoes a feeling inside me, one I’ve been struggling with more and more lately.
At the edge of my subconscious, something keeps scratching for attention, trying to make itself known.
My damned secret alter ego, most likely.
To keep that strange, nagging pressure from building further, that growing sense of futility and burnout, I finally tear my eyes away from the vast expanse of sky.
My electronic glasses have an internal display that lets me record everything happening around me, read emails, browse the internet, even reply to messages if I activate the virtual keyboard.
Right now I’m starting to watch a stream of emails scroll across my vision.
I’m logged into Malden’s official corporate email account.
That inbox usually gets flooded with a dozen messages a minute, spam mixed with thousands of people wanting something from me.
My assistants filter them and select the ones they think I should actually see, while ninety-nine percent never reach me.
At least that’s what they think. Sometimes I put myself through a little self-inflicted torture session and skim through the subject lines anyway.
Die, bitch!
Watch your back. One day I’m gonna rip that blue head off your shoulders…
You egotistical narcissistic asshole…
An endless stream of hate mail.
Suddenly, my eye catches a subject line my assistants must have skipped over, probably because it didn’t say much: "A Last Hope."
"Mr. Lowen, I’m writing to you as a last resort, my final hope. I’m a single dad, and last year my only son, Tino, became seriously ill. We don’t have health insurance, and the doctors say his case is hopeless. I’m attaching his medical records, and praying that you might open your heart and…"
My eyes move over the attached PDF. It’s a severe case, but not a hopeless one. We have experimental therapies that could potentially work for him. I stare at the email for a moment, then flag it for follow-up by my assistants.
Then I go back to scanning the rest of the messages.
"You disgusting reptile, your very existence is an insult to this planet."
"I hope you die in unimaginable agony, you piece of trash!"
"What an asshole you are!"
I sigh.
My eyes drift away from the messages and back to the skyline. Usually I don’t allow toxic energy to poison my mind, but every once in a while, during brief moments like this, when I’m staring out at a city full of people who hate me, one thought flashes through my head.
What if that accident had never happened?
Who would I be? Nobody would know me, nobody would hate me.
I lift my hand and place my fingers against the smooth glass. Cold, indifferent. It reminds me of myself, at least on the surface, and usually underneath too.
I live by one principle: the world can only affect me if I allow it to.
I decide what irritates me and what brings me pleasure. Over nearly thirty years, I’ve developed exceptional control over my emotions, almost to a robotic level. That’s what people sometimes call me, actually.
How can you be such a robot? Does any of this affect you at all? My nephew Sariel sometimes asks me things like that.
Do you have any human needs? Beyond eating and sleeping?
He likes to talk about everything I permanently gave up, about his longing for closeness, love, and intimacy.
I entertain him by listening to his rambling, though most of it goes over my head.
I don’t share that sentiment. I wouldn’t allow myself to get distracted like that.
Standing here and looking out the window, I feel illusively safe inside my tower of glass and steel. Inside my armor made of indifference and control.
In moments like this, I’m glad I don’t have to let in all the chaos another person brings with him, because one thing is certain: other people cannot be controlled.
And lack of control means lack of certainty in the outcome. Being a scientist, I understand that process perfectly.
I turn away from the glass and walk toward my desk. My life flows through this absolutely sterile space, this minimalist office full of cold surfaces.
With a touch of my finger, I activate a hidden compartment that slides open, revealing my laptop. I sit down and begin replying to emails, scheduling meetings, analyzing reports…
I start answering the first email.
But my hands suddenly freeze. In a single paragraph alone, autocorrect changed the same words twice. Instead of load and loss, I see something silly there.
I never use autocorrect, but there was some software update yesterday, and apparently it turned itself on by default.
My lips tighten because the word sitting there sparks an unreasoned irritation inside me.
Current projections remain stable, although the system predicts a temporary increase in operational love across the eastern sector if shipping costs continue rising.
I also want the analytics department to double-check the latest retention reports, since even minor fluctuations could significantly increase our projected love margins next quarter…
What is this supposed to be, a stupid joke from some computer gremlin?
For a brief second, a tiny crack appears in my airtight armor.
A faint shiver runs down my spine, like some longing is knocking against my subconscious, something I killed inside myself years ago. With a quick motion, I correct both words, then reread the paragraph carefully just to make sure I killed it for good.
There’s no place for silliness in the life of a corporation CEO.
But then, against my own will, a strange flash crosses my mind.
I see my hand intertwined with another man’s, and I catch the faint scent of apples mixed with sweetness, something like a fresh apple pie pulled straight from a warm oven, warm colors all around.
Green apples and sweet pastry…
Then the vision fades. The world returns to black, white, and gray.
Only the laptop screen faintly glows, filled with emails waiting for my replies.