I storm into the dark paneled kitchen of Donald's home. I can remember workdays like this back in Toronto, when I was still a teacher. A student would behave so badly, I could feel myself teetering on the edge of losing my faith in humanity.
But however cruel children can be, they don't have the power of adults. Adults can destroy one another utterly.
Days like this, I'd reach for ice cream. The more chocolate stuffed into it, the better.
It is my primary vice, and after a hard day at work and the impending prospect of having to press on no matter what my feelings, only a big bowl can make me feel better.
I tug on the cabinets that hide the fridge door but it's locked.
"House -- whatever I can you -- open the fridge," I feel awkward giving commands to the cupboards.
"Your biometric tracker indicates that you are experiencing elevated stress levels," comes the reply from the house in soothing tones. "And I'm afraid you've already consumed nearly all of your allotted healthy range of calories for the day."
"Screw that," I mutter under my breath.
I move to the tall pantry and tug at the handle. It's also locked. I yank repeatedly and when it doesn't open, I gyrate it violently.
"I'm so sorry, Ms. Anderson," says the house as I unsuccessfully pry at the door. "I cannot let you eat now. It would be detrimental to your health. Your well-being is my foremost concern."
I stop. I slump onto the floor and fight back tears. The only sound of comfort is the motorized whir of the intelligent appliances.
"Elevated stress levels can be helped by flooding the brain with serotonin." I'm startled by the voice of the house's AI. "At only thirty five calories, this food item will help release serotonin from your neurotransmiters while keeping your daily caloric intake within a healthy range."
I look up. There, on the island counter, is a cubic inch of chocolate. It's a deep brown color and shines in the glint of the overhead lights.
I get up quickly and cross the kitchen towards it. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. The anticipation of its richness making me salivate.
Turning around, I throw it at the fridge and run from the room.
#
"Well now, Someone looks like they've had a great day," Austin says as he enters our bedroom.
I'm laying on the bed with my face squashed into the hill of pillows. I groan loudly, the sound muffled by the down.
"Did something happen?" He asks.
I venture a peek. He's undoing his belt, beginning to remove his pants as he used to at the end of each work day.
"What have you been up to?" I ask.
"Okay, we can talk about me first. But I do what to hear about what happened. Promise?"
"Sure."
"I wanted to look at the city. I wanted to know what people do with themselves here all day. So I went walking."
"Long walk." I prop myself up on an elbow. "And so did you find out? What people here do all day?"
"From what I saw, art mostly. Saw a lot of sketching going on. A lot of sitting by the river doodling or reading little FlexScreens."
He comes over to the bed and sits beside me, leaning in and looking around as if someone would hear us.
"I even saw an old notebook or two," he whispers.
"Wow," I say in mock amazement and giggle. "Art, huh? Art and high finance, it seems."
"And what about you?" He rubs my back. "Come on, Andrea. You promised."
I heave a long, loud sigh. "I just...I just don't know if I'm cut out for it."
"Why? What happened?"
"Oh, everything. And nothing. What does something always have to happen? I just don't get it, okay? I don't understand how their world works and I'm not sure I ever will."
"Something must have happened. You wouldn't be so upset if it hadn't."
I tell him about my day. About all the people I met, about the money and what they were going to do with it.
"It just doesn't seem fair, Austin. I mean, ten billion. What that money could mean to other people, people who are living like we were -- without any way to survive. How many tens of thousands of starving people could that feed? How much medicine could that buy?"
"You're right, Andrea. But these people, business people like your father, they're not really working to feed people who need it, are they?"
"But couldn't I set up a foundation or something?"
"With company money?"
"Why not?"
"I'm not sure that's quite legal. Or kosher -- or whatever."
"Maybe. But I need to do something. I can't just sit here doing nothing with all this money."
"Look, how about tomorrow I'll look into it? And then we can talk about it some more?"
I look up at him. There's the sincerity in his eyes that I've known so long. One of the reasons I fell in love with him: he's like an open book in his intentions.
"All right." I wrap my arms around his waist. We sit there in silence for a moment.
"There's something else," I wince at my own words.
"What is it?"
"I had a fight with the kitchen."
(Continued in Chapter 74...)