2019 / Year 6

April

Storm Dillane surprised Jonathon Nightly with deep mahogany eyes, flawless brown skin, and a seat at the reception desk only two away from his. Her most interesting characteristic wasn't her appearance, but her ability to lure Jon out of his recent bout of apathy toward the opposite sex. (The word "apathy" was too kind. "Impotence" was more accurate, but Jon tried to bury that word under piles of paperwork.) Without as much as a glance or word, he found himself enamored with a woman for the first time in five years.

It was the second day of Storm's internship at Theron-Mitchell Design. Jon arrived twenty minutes early and removed a pair of glasses from his bottom desk drawer. Last quarter, the frames had consumed his life. They were a prototype knockoff of Google Glass that served as an internet browser an inch from the user's eyes. Jon played no part in the technological aspects of the device; it was his job to integrate the digital components into a trendy frame.

Jon wasn't venturing into new territory; thousands of the world's best designers had already perfected their own versions of smart glasses.

After six months of work, his pessimism was validated. Not only had he failed to improve the design, he actually created a glitch that selected unwanted commands whenever the user removed the glasses from their face.

Today, Jon's failed project had a new purpose. He placed the bridge on his nose, turned them on, and used a combination of hand gestures and voice commands to navigate the menus that seemed to hover before him. He scanned the room to make sure he was alone, then said aloud, "Download the most popular dating app." The application opened a second later and prompted a new menu. "Age?"

Jon rolled his eyes. Am I really doing this? He sighed, then spoke his response. "I'm twenty-nine."

"Please frame your age using the Year Standard Model."

Another sigh. "23/29."

"Are you attracted to men, women, both, or other?"

"Women."

"Are you interested in knowing your friendship compatibility with men?"

"Sure," he said.

"How would you characterize your current relationship status?"

"Single."

The app asked Jon twenty more questions before Gary from accounting arrived, forcing him to switch to subtle hand gestures to indicate his responses. By the time he had answered enough questions for a detailed personality profile, the office was bustling with coworkers.

Jon scanned the room and realized just how popular the program had become. Green squares latched on to every face in the office, and within seconds, the face-recognition software linked each person with their profiles.

Jon looked at Beth—another designer—and a large text bubble appeared above her head.

"Name: AngelPie"

"CIN: 6911-095-28819"

"Age: 31/31"

"Interested In: Men"

"Relationship Status: Married"

"Turn Ons: Cats and walks in the park."

Yellow text glowed above her profile: "52% romantic compatibility." A button at the bottom asked, "SEND FLIRT?"

Jon ignored the question and looked away.

Across the room, Giovanni Mitchell sported his signature grey suit without a tie, nodded to his underlings, and stepped into the glass sanctuary of his corner office. The digital box found his face and a green number glowed above his profile. "88% friendship compatibility."

Donna from marketing received a yellow 71% compatibility rating. Becca from accounting received a red 44%.

At precisely 8:00 AM, Storm Dillane entered the office with the poise of a nervous panther. The digital square outlined her face as she took her seat. The number glowed green at 99%.

Jon slumped in his chair but kept his focus on Storm as she removed her heels and slid them beneath her desk. He flicked his finger to scroll through her statistics.

"Name: Storm Erenheart Dillane"

"CIN: 6442-088-17939"

"Age: 19/24"

"Interested In: Men"

"Relationship Status: Single"

"Turn Ons: N/A"

"Last Update: 4/13/19: Beat twenty other candidates for an internship at Theron-Mitchell! I start tomorrow!"

The bottom of the bubble read: "SEND FLIRT?"

No, Jon told himself. She's your coworker.

Storm looked up and caught him staring.

He twirled back to his desk, snatched the glasses from his face, and heard a tiny, affirmative beep.

Oh no.

Slowly, he raised the glasses and read the digital display. Large pink letters filled the screen: "FLIRT SENT."

Oh shit...

Across the office, another soft beep. Jon watched in horror as Storm reached into her purse and removed her own glasses (designed by another company without the glitch).

Jon stashed the device in his bottom drawer... but it was too late. Storm was glaring at him through her glasses.

* * *

Jon unwrapped his meatball sub in the Theron-Mitchell break room. The wall behind him played a floor-to-ceiling slideshow of TMD propaganda; lamps, toasters, sinks, and other all-too-familiar designs. The wall to his left showed ESPN highlights of last night's White Sox game.

Jon doodled a sketch on his napkin and took his first bite of meatball when Storm sauntered to his table and purred, "Hey there, Mr. Ninety-nine Percent."

Jon used his drawing to wipe marinara from his cheeks. "Is ninety-nine good?"

"Best I've seen since I bought the dumb thing." She flattened her skirt beneath her legs and sat.

"What do you think the one percent is?" he asked.

"Well, I don't like spying on my coworkers during office hours... and you do."

Jon realized the "nervous panther" had become just a regular panther; confident and poised for the kill.

"Your name came up several times during orientation," she said.

"Oh yeah? Wha'd they say?"

"They said your work ethic is outstanding and you have commitment rarely seen in men your age."

He shrugged. "Most people are perpetual job seekers. They don't stay at the same company for more than a year."

"And you've been here—"

"Five." He took a careful bite of meatball. "You're lucky. There's a lot of people looking for this type of work."

"I'm here because an algorithm scanned my social media accounts and told Andrew Theron I was the most qualified applicant."

"Geez. I forgot they were doing that."

"Seems a bit invasive, but it got me the job." She folded her arms on the table. "Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "It's my job to integrate the digital experience into—"

"That's your job description. Tell me 'why.'"

Jon considered the question. "Well, I want people to want smart appliances. I want my design to look and feel like products we've been using for a hundred years, not the sleek, metallic designs you see in bad sci-fi movies. I want to make technology easier for people to accept. It's not enough to just put it out there... we need to be comfortable with it."

"Like your photo album."

He smiled. "The bosses told me traditional albums were obsolete, but I explained that my parent's generation would always prefer physical photos over a computer. With their blessing, I designed the TM digital photo album with a leather cover and three-picture layout. It's still one of our best sellers."

"Fascinating," Storm said, though it was difficult to tell if she serious or sarcastic. "What are you working on now?"

"I'm part of a team that's developing a large-scale, all-encompassing smart system for the middle-class home. Our goal is to blend our products with everyday life to improve quality of living. For example, we designed a chair that detects weight gain and communicates with your fridge to highlight healthy foods."

"Highlight?"

"The fridge knows the location of every item on its shelves and uses a spotlight system to direct the user's attention to the appropriate food."

"Interesting."

"The chair also talks to your clothes to figure out exactly which muscles are sore. It sends the information to your shower head and sets it to the perfect setting, then it tells your bed which position is best to ease your pain."

"Wow."

"On top of that, our products learn what people like. Our cups keep track of the most frequent drinks, how much the user consumes, how much they throw away—"

"Then you sell the data to food manufacturers."

"It's valuable information. It helps them track trends so they can give consumers exactly what they want."

Before Storm could ask another question, Beth waddled between them and leaned against the table. "Hey there, ninety-nine," she said to Jon. "Why don't you ever send me any flirts?" She tossed him a suggestive glance, then burst out laughing.

Jon glared at Storm. "Already?"

* * *

On their first date, Jon was tricked into believing that Storm was part of the dying breed of traditional romantics. He made the assumption when she waited for him to open the restaurant door, then again when he forgot to pull out her chair. "Sorry," he said. "It's been a while."

Storm wore a plaid skirt, burnt-orange blouse, and silk scarf. Halfway through the meal she asked, "Is that a tattoo?"

Jon had worn a long-sleeve button-up to avoid the question, but mindlessly rolled up his cuffs when the food was served. Although five years had passed, he hadn't updated the spiral timeline, partly because his life wasn't living up to the optimism of his early-twenties, partly because he didn't want to add another tombstone. "Yep," he said, then unrolled his sleeve over the circle.

Storm took the hint and changed the subject. "What do you do for fun?"

"Fun... that's a word I haven't heard in a long time..."

"You don't just sit at a desk all day."

"Eight hours at my office desk, eight hours at my home desk... then I sleep."

"You don't have a social life?"

"My friend runs a bar on Addison. Have you heard of Aimee's Oasis?"

"I haven't."

"I still see her and her husband every few months, but we mostly share drinks, joke about the good ol' days, and promise to do it again soon."

"No other friends? Maybe we are perfect for each other."

"Almost." He winked, then touched "Drink Refill" on table's digital menu. "Any family?"

"I'm an only child. I grew up in Naperville, but my parents moved south in search of work. I stayed behind."

Jon smiled. "I'm glad."

"What about you? Any family?"

"Mom and dad divorced when I was in high school, but they're back together again. Work makes it hard to see them... but they're good people."

"Any siblings?"

Jon finished the last of his drink and dropped it on the table. "Nope. Only child."

* * *

May.

Jon leapt from the taxi, raised his wrist, and spoke to his watch. "Set the condo temperature to seventy-two degrees, dim the lights, and turn on the fireplace."

"Somebody's looking for action," Storm said. She accepted his hand and stepped to the curb. Neon lights splashed a multicolored halo around her dashing black dress as she leaned against the cab and gazed into the Chicago night.

Jon snapped a photo with his phone. Gorgeous.

The condo was warm. The lights were dim. The fireplace was on.

"I could fit three of my apartments in your kitchen," Storm said.

"Theron-Mitchell has been good—"

"Are those Legos?" she interrupted, then b-lined to his dining room table covered with hundreds of white bricks. Some were laying loose around the edge, others had been assembled into intricate structures at the center.

"Still like me?" he asked.

"Legos had colors when I was a kid. Did you suck all the fun out of these too?"

"The white lets me focus on form."

"Kinda nerdy. Kinda awesome." She slipped out of her heels and graced the leather of his contemporary sofa. "Your couch isn't going to tell me I'm fat, is it?"

Jon laughed and uncorked a bottle of red. "I got you a present, but it's not very romantic."

"Please tell me it's Legos."

"Under the coffee table."

Storm reached down (giving Jon a brief glimpse of black underwear) then pulled out a simple box adorned with the TMD logo and a picture of a media player.

"That'll hold every movie made in the last fifty years." He poured the wine and handed her a glass.

"It's... great."

"That's as romantic as I get with a four hour notice."

"Birthdays aren't important to me, darling... not that I didn't appreciate our lovely dinner." She scanned the specs on the back of the box. "Did you really buy me a two-hundred dollar present on our third date?"

"TM gives them out like candy. You'll get the next version for your one-year... if you stick around that long."

Storm tossed the device beside her purse and tapped her fingernail on her glass. "Kiss me?" she asked, her brown irises jarring him from reality before snapping him right back.

As Jon leaned forward to kiss her lips, Storm's rigid poise finally softened and eased gently into the sofa.

2020 / Year 7

May

One year later.

"Do you remember your birthday last year?" Jon asked.

"Mmm," murmured Storm. "We made love on this couch."

"Do you remember what you told me afterwards?"

"I told you I couldn't be in a relationship."

"You said you couldn't be in a relationship with me."

"Ah, details..."

"Have you changed your mind?"

She blushed. "I changed my mind the next day."

"I have a present for you." He removed a box from under the coffee table. "This version can hold every movie in the last thousand yeas."

"Just what I've always wanted!" she exclaimed, then dropped the unopened player to the floor. "Where's my real present?"

Jon reached in his pocket, removed a traditional velvet box, dropped traditionally to one knee, then revealed a traditional, gold engagement ring. "Storm Dillane—"

"Oh god." Tears spread across her eyes.

"Will you marry me?"

A smile breached her face and her eyes pressed out tears. She fell forward, knocked the ring to the ground, and engulfed Jon with kisses.

He laughed and searched for the ring with his free hand.

"You're wonderful."

He found it beneath the sofa. "You need to say yes before I can put it on."

Her smile wavered. The hesitation lasted less than a second, but Jon felt its sting.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I—"

"It's too soon—"

"It's not." She took his cheeks and made him look at her. "I love you, Jon."

"We'll wait. We'll see where things go and—"

"It's not the timing... it's..."

"Forever?"

Her broken eyes confirmed his theory. "There are other options," she said.

"You want a commitment ceremony?"

"They're getting more popular."

"They seem so... fake."

"We get along because we're similar. But how will we feel in fifty years?"

"I'll still love you."

"I don't doubt that, darling. But when we're ninety, love might not be enough."

Jon felt nauseated, but relived she didn't decline completely. "How long would we vow?"

"We should talk about it more, but I think ten years would be a good start."

He nodded. So much for traditional.

"If we're still happy after ten years, we'll renew for another ten. Or twenty if we think it's doable."

Jon took the ring back from Storm. He looked again into her gleaming eyes and said, "Storm Dillane, will you marry me for ten years?"

The smile and tears returned. This time, she accepted with furious nods. "Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes."

* * *

Storm fell asleep in candlelight after another love-making session on the leather sofa. Jon kissed her temple, untangled his body from hers, and picked up the remains of her twenty-sixth birthday.

He noticed the sealed media player under the couch, scoffed, then bundled it with the rest of the garbage and threw it away.

2021 / Year 8

January

Eight months later.

Bits of conversation caught Jon's ear as they traveled in whispers and groans throughout the office. The rumor mill said things were about to change... and not just for Theron-Mitchell.

Jon did his best to ignore the gossip and to focus on the planter before him. It was a digital sketch of a terra cotta bowl, part of their ongoing smart-home series which Jon had been stressed about for weeks. The goal was to create a normal-looking planter that could recognize the needs of the organisms inside, satisfy their needs, and yield perfect, rapid-growing food.

Behind him, Beth colluded with the new guy from marketing. "We have two years at the most," she whispered. "If somebody doesn't figure it out soon, we'll all be looking for new jobs."

Jon sighed and tried to stay focused on his work. But focusing was impossible, partly because of the sense of dread emanating from his coworkers, partly because of the electrodes attached to his temple.

The electrodes were part of a rudimentary thinking apparatus that sent Jon's brain signals to his computer and glasses. Some called it a brain scanner. The developer called it a neuro-transcriber. Jon called it useless.

The technology was most useful as a writing aid for people with paralysis. It could learn their thought patterns to predict what they want to say. For the casual user, it let them send messages as quickly as they could think them.

The device still couldn't send information to the brain except for a single thump of pressure in the frontal lobe. It was an unsettling way to alert someone of an incoming text.

If Jon had a choice, he would have ripped the circles from his temples and thrown them away, but Andy Theron predicted a boom in thought-controlled technology and wanted to make certain his company was at the forefront of the innovation. Every designer was required to wear them for two hours per day, even if it hampered their ability to work.

Jon stared at the planter sketch on the glass in front of him. ["Delete picture,"] he thought. But nothing happened. ["Delete the picture,"] he thought again, and the picture expanded to fill the screen.

Finally, he touched the display with his fingers and manually deleted the damn picture.

[Thump.] Jon quivered at the soft pulse behind his forehead. It was a text from Storm. "The gossip is driving me crazy. Do I need to be worried?"

He messaged back, "Idk..."

[Thump.] "Love you."

Jon pulled the circles off his temples, threw them in his desk, and slammed the drawer. "Love you too."

* * *

March.

Storm moved through the church pews like a music box ballerina, arms outstretched, dark ringlets of hair dancing along her neck, mesh skirt twirling at her knees. "I love it," she declared. "This is it."

After two months of searching for a wedding venue, Jon was relieved to hear joy in his fiancée's voice.

Years ago, this church used to be his. He could still remember kneeling on the floor as a toddler and using the pew as a desk for his drawings.

"This place is huge," Storm exclaimed. "Look at all the pews!"

"Think we can fill a whole row?"

"Nope." Storm encircled a white column letting her fingers flicker along the ridges. "But what the hell... right?"

"Yeah." He smiled. "What the hell."

Storm skipped to the front of the chapel. "What kind of flowers?" she shouted.

"Magnolias!" Jon shouted back.

"Those aren't wedding flowers! How about daffodils?"

Mark, the minister who took their appointment, stepped beside Jon in the center aisle. "Joyful women are such a blessing," he said. "I bet two nickels she's always pulling you from one adventure to the next."

"She's a keeper," Jon replied.

"You're not a usual member of our congregation."

"My family attended regularly when I was a boy."

"Really! Would I remember your parents?"

"George and Susan Nightly?"

"The Nightlys! I was a deacon while they were attending. They taught Sunday School to our elementary students."

"I forgot about that."

"How are George and Susan?"

Jon shifted his weight. "They're divorced. But they're actually living together again... which I guess is sort of a double sin."

"Divorce can be tragic."

"I'm pretty sure they considered it a blessing."

The men watched Storm as she pounced between exciting details. She flipped on her glasses to record her surroundings.

"May I ask which church you currently call home?" Mark asked.

Jon had shed all qualms regarding his disbelief and meant to tell the truth... but a woman tapped the minister on the shoulder and diverted his attention. "They just keep coming," she whispered.

Mark nodded and indicated "one minute" with his finger. "How are you feeling about the sanctuary?" he asked Jon.

"Hey hon!" Jon called to the stage. "How do we like it?"

"We love it!" Storm yelled back. She charged toward them, caught herself mid-stride, then slowed to a polite walk. "We love it," she repeated with the stoic grace that Jon fell in love with.

Mark turned to his assistant. "Okay, Denise. Let them in."

"Yes sir." She stepped sideways then headed to the front corner of the sanctuary.

"We don't usually close the doors on the needy," he told Jon and Storm, "but today was important for us. It brightens my day when young couples look to the church for their wedding venue. You'll be our second this year."

"You're kidding," Jon said. "Only two?"

The pastor smiled. "I'm just glad to see that there are still couples who aren't afraid of Forever."

Denise opened the side door. Men and women entered in a continuous line, forty at least by the time they were all inside. Most were dressed casually, though a few looked worse-off in tattered clothes that had spent too many months on the shelves of Goodwill.

"We were beginning to see a decline in attendance," Mark said, "but we can always count on a recession to bring the pious home."

Jon and Storm watched as the group dissipated throughout the pews. One woman knelt in the front row, pulled a candle from her purse, lit it, and bowed her head.

* * *

"I feel guilty," Storm confessed on the way home.

"Don't," Jon replied. "Their misfortune has nothing to do with our wedding."

"Am I a bad person for wanting our day to be special?"

"We spend wisely and still have our jobs. There's no reason we can't splurge a little for a wedding."

* * *

July.

Giovanni Mitchell wore grey slacks, a blue button-up, glasses, circle electrodes on his temples, and no tie. The man was 25/32, but Jon still felt like a kid in the principal's office whenever they talked business.

Mitchell motioned to an old Herman Miller Aeron chair. "How's the wedding going?"

Jon sat. "I'm hangin' in there."

"Storm's keeping you on task? Shit... I've seen that woman manage a schedule."

"Thankfully she knows how to compromise."

Mitchell snatched a painted block of wood from the corner of his desk. "Orange," he said aloud. Slowly, the paint faded from white to a soft cream. Soon it was tan, tangerine, then bright orange. "This shit's gonna be huge. When the price drops, we're gonna slather it on everything."

"It's definitely a game changer," Jon agreed.

"Blue," Mitchell said to the block, then set it aside and looked to Jon. "It's no secret that shit's about to burn in this country."

"It'll be tough, but we'll get through it."

"That's why I wanted to chat. I'm letting you know first because we're friends."

Uh oh. "What is it?"

"We're being forced to cut back on some non-essentials. The office will be first to go."

"The office?" Jon asked. "The whole thing?"

Mitchell's gaze returned to the block as it turned muddy brown. "From now on, we'll be working from home. We'll teleconference twice a day, and weekly meetings will be held in a conference room on Wabash."

Jon shrugged. "Cool. That's a great way to save—"

"This means we no longer need a receptionist." The paint finished its transformation to a deep, royal blue. "I'm sorry, bro."

"You gave us a one year commitment—"

"We gave you a one-year commitment. We couldn't make the same promise to our everyone."

Jon squirmed in the fancy chair. "Promote her. She's great with numbers. Maybe accounting?"

Mitchell tossed him a pity smile. "I'd love to, bro. But Storm is young. She doesn't have a degree—"

"You know better than anyone that college is useless. She's passionate about work and—"

"Whoa. Chill, bro. I'm sorry, but your fiancée has everything working against her. She's a great girl—a fantastic receptionist—and I'm sure she'd make a kickass accountant. But if you were in my position, would you hire someone in a flooded market with no schooling or hands-on experience?"

Jon shook his head. "No... I wouldn't."

* * *

August.

Storm's stiff retail ensemble defiled her ageless physique with a bright red shirt, frumpy khakis, and digital name tag that read, "Storm Dillane" beneath "Lasker's Department Store." She plopped in the passenger seat, said, "Hi," then leaned in and kissed Jon's cheek.

"Hey, hon."

She stripped her pants to the floor, pulled her shirt over her head, hooked her tag on the visor, and stared at it. Her sorrowful gaze only enhanced her beauty; her flawless legs, angelic underwear, tight torso, and the long, dark neckline of an African princess.

"It's only temporary," he said.

"I know." She tucked the tag in the visor and closed it.

"You still want to do this? We can wait 'til—"

"'Til we're rich?" Storm reached into the back seat and removed a cream-colored dress still sealed in plastic. "It was a childhood dream, Jon. Nothing more."

"You deserve better."

"I do." She tore the plastic and removed the dress. "And so do you." She leaned over the center console and kissed him again.

Ten minutes later, they arrived at the Lake Michigan shore. Grey clouds lingered over the city and watched their backs as they crossed the beach with heavy strides. The train of Storm's dress was just long enough to drag a path in the sand.

Mark was waiting at the shore.

Storm kicked her shoes to the beach. Jon held out his arm and she took it. Then she smiled and said, "Let's get married."

2022 / Year 9

April

Eight months later.

It took eight years, but Jon finally returned to the Fire&Ink tattoo parlor on Halstead.

He was glad to see they were still using needles and ink instead of lasers and LEDs. All Jon needed for the next twelve icons was normal, black ink.

Before the artist began on the new series of symbols, Jon requested an "X" over the circle.

A headstone with "GDN" across the face was the first new icon, followed by the logo for Theron-Mitchell Design. "99%" represented the day he met Storm, and a new circle stood for their engagement.

The twelfth symbol was the most exciting. It was a balloon, elegant in its simplicity and a worthy representation of the most important news in Jonathon Nightly's life: Storm was pregnant with his son.