Salt

By jinnis

The sun rises over the horizon, and warm light floods the garden. Pink clouds scattered in the sky glow with the first light, and the branches of a tall fir rustle in a breeze that ruffles the marguerites in the meadow beyond the fence.

From my window, I study another perfect day in the making, enjoy the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the song of birds chirping in the apple tree. Soon, the carefree laughter of the children playing in the yard will join them.

Soft footsteps approach. I can't help but smile while I lean back into the embrace of my wife. She nibbles at my ear. "You look morose, my darling. What is it?"

I sigh. "That dream again. Don't worry, Randa, it will pass."

"Of course, it will. Come, let's have breakfast and decide what we do with this beautiful day." She pulls me towards the table where a loaf of fresh bread, a lump of golden butter, and a jar of homemade marmalade wait. I admire her auburn curls, her rosy cheeks, her smooth skin, and sparkling eyes. The cheeky freckles on her nose still remind me of the day I met her.

With a smile, I sit down. But deep inside, a part of me screams, caught in a nightmare nothing can chase. Because I know it's not a dream, but a memory. The memory of the day when we left our shabby home and joined the government-program. At this point, we hardly had a choice. Both well beyond retirement, with Randa fighting a lost war against cancer, the program seemed like a straight road to heaven.

They promised us Utopia, and they delivered. We live the perfect illusion of eternal youth, eternal spring, the bliss of wishes come true. And all that health, the beauty, and perfection came at a minor price.

The human brain is an incredible organ. To be lucky, we only need a tiny fraction of it. It doesn't hurt to subscribe the rest to the government, for whatever use they have for the organic processors we are born with.

They assured me I wouldn't be able to see through the illusion. But sometimes, when I listen to Randa's soft breaths at night, I am. Then I wish I could tune out the simulation, convince myself that she's healthy—and still with me. But the chip in my brain offers no escape.

I know I should be grateful to be happy with my love. But while I watch Randa spread butter on a slice of bread and listen to her blissful laugh, I long for a world less perfect. For the pain in my back after a day's hard labour. For the heat of the sun on my skin. For the taste of that first swig of a well-earned beer after work. For the imperfections that give life flavour, the salt in the soup. 

And, perhaps, for closure.