The alarm clock had been buzzing for three minutes already, but Tom never heard it. He was lost: lost in a dreamscape about her again. Tom had dreamt about her every night for weeks it seemed, and it was starting to play a larger part in his life than he realized.
The smart watch on his wrist finally took action Tom would not: it jolted him into consciousness, and he leaped out of bed. Shaking his head, Tom looked down at the phone on his wrist, and read the screen.
“Congratulations Tom: you’ve slept 8.5 hours. Your sleep was restful, as you only rolled over twice. Good job.”
“Good job?” Tom asked himself. “What kind of …”
Another message popped up before Tom could finish his query.
“It’s 8:17AM Tom. You’re running a bit behind this morning. Pick up the pace, or you’ll be late for work.”
“Oh shit!” Tom barked, as he ripped off his pajamas. He ran to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. No time to shave this morning, Tom thought to himself.
“Maybe I could shave on the way to work,” he pondered. Ah, forget it. I keep forgetting to plug in that damned electric razor. “Fuck.”
Tom grabbed the bar of soap and worked it into a good lather, covering his head and rubbing the bar all over his body. He stopped for a second to smell the bar, and just as he did, his watch went off again.
“Automatic conservation measures now in place. Water consumption is reduced,” and with that, the shower head reduced the flow of water to a trickle.
“What the …oh my god. How in the hell am I supposed to rinse off now?”
Another message reminded Tom that he had only thirty-seven minutes left to get to work, so he turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and wiped off the soap. He stepped out of the shower, still dripping wet, and started to dress, getting the buttons on his shirt out of order. The day wasn’t starting out well.
As he turned the corner into the kitchen, his mom — standing there with her walker — looked at him cross. “You’re going to be late,” she quipped. “What have you been doing?”
“I over slept, again. Is there any coffee?”
“Of course. That’s twice this week. You not able to sleep at night, hon?”
“No, Ma, I just — I just overslept. It’s no big deal.”
“Grandma, look right here. I told ya: skateboarding has great cardiac benefits.”
Joshua, Tom’s 14-year old son, was trying to show his grandma a website he had found promoting the health benefits of skateboarding. As he pointed to the page on his watch, the image on the TV screen behind him changed instantly to that of a skateboarder.
“That’s not what I’m talking about, Josh.” Grandma snapped back. “Exercise is always a good thing, but you spend all day on that thing, and I can’t even get you to take out the trash. I could use a little…”
Tom just shook his head: the never-ending argument between these two happened roughly the same time every morning. Better get some coffee.
As Tom reached for a cup in the cupboard, his watch beeped. “Reminder to reduce sugar intake. One teaspoon only, Tom.”
“Shit,” Tom grumbled almost under his breath.
“What dear?” his mother asked from the other side of the kitchen, holding up her hand to Joshua to stop him from speaking long enough to hear Tom.
“Oh, it’s nothing Ma. Just the sugar…I gotta cut back to lose ten pounds. Company health physicals coming up, and I don’t want to be put in any ‘exercise program’ with a buncha chubbos.”
“Tom! You were a chubbo once yourself, young man, don’t forget that,” his mom retorted. “And you’ve done a good job of keeping fit…”
Once again, the smart watch on his wrist buzzed him. “Twenty-nine minutes until the work day begins Tom. Would you like me to prepare the car?”
Tom shook his head again, grabbed a doughnut and stuffed a bite in his mouth. Before he could even finish chewing, the watch buzzed again. “Traffic is backed up on I-13. Would you like to plan an alternate route?”
Without answering the device, Tom gulped down a mouthful of coffee, kissed his mom goodbye, and told Josh to listen to his Grandma.
“I’ll see you guys after work, alright? I gotta go,” he said as he stumbled out the door and into the waiting — and running — car.
Tom climbed behind the wheel but the car was in control, steering him onto an alternate path to avoid the traffic snarl on the highway. He began to get a bit nervous when he realized that nothing looked very familiar, and the car was taking him down streets and even alleys he didn’t know existed.
“Where are we going?” he asked, almost talking to himself.
“This route is clear: there is no traffic congestion on this route,” the car answered back.
Tom looked at his smart watch and realized he only had eight minutes left to get to work, and now he was truly starting to panic. His watch beeped: “Heart rate elevated: try to relax Tom. The route is clear.”
“Yeah,” Tom chuckled. “Relax,” Tom mused to himself as the car emerged from an alley and onto a street only 200 yards from his office.
“How in the hell did you…wow! Hey…that’s pretty cool!” I’ll have to remember that way.” The car thanked Tom for the compliment and made a permanent record of the path in its databank. Tom was impressed as the car pulled him into the parking lot with four minutes left to spare.
Tom is a supervisor for Produce Mart, a mega-national corporation that packages and sends fresh fruit and vegetables all over the world. This location is just one of dozens the company has throughout the state, and Tom can still remember how rough things were before the company came to town: many folks, including Tom, struggled to make ends meet. Most of Tom’s friends work for Produce Mart now, and many of them have been able to buy a house, or a car, or go back to school. The company provides many benefits, but also demands much from its employees, and punctuality is high on that list. Late employees have been severely reprimanded, and many had actually been fired for being late too often. Tom couldn’t afford to lose his job, so he ran to the Employee entrance.
Without stopping, Tom entered the warehouse, saying ‘hi’ to the guard, Tony — who went to high school with Tom — and kept moving right to the lockers. As he passed the guard post, a photo of Tom displayed on the video terminal, showing his name, face, and employee number. Other employees were also hustling through the gate, and the display changed as each one passed by the terminal.
As Tom moved towards the lockers to hang up his coat, his smart phone chirped at him: “You have 14 new messages.” Tom squinted at the screen: 14? he wondered. That seemed a bit much. He tossed his coat into the locker and began checking his messages, but before he even got to the second message, he could hear the arguing from his team: from them — again!
Tom ran PL7, short for Pineapples, Line 7, as first shift supervisor, but there always seemed to be a problem when he wasn’t there. Actually, it was always the same problem almost everyday: Marcia and Hector. “These two must really love each other,” Tom once said, “because they fight like they’re married.”
“I never said we had to double-bag the new load. I said Frieda said we had to double-bag them. Just because you never read the emails…” Marcia was on the attack.
Hector interrupted: “I read all the email! I don’t need you telling me what was in the email! I can read the email just fine, thank you very much. You can…”
“What’s the problem guys? What — what’s going on?” Tom asked, almost yelling, as he approached the staging area.
“She trying to tell me about the email again Tom, and I am tired of listening to her. She want to be da boss, but she ain’t the boss o’ me! You tell her to keep her…” Hector was on one of his rants again, complaining about Marcia and her efforts to take over the world.
“Once again, Tom, Hector did not read the latest changes to the bagging procedures. Frieda just sent out a memo telling us to change the…” Marcia was trying to justify why she was telling Hector what to do.
“Ok, Ok, I got it. Look, guys! You two gotta…” but before Tom could finish his sentence, his watch blurted something at him. “Your heart rate is elevated Tom. Try to relax. Perhaps you should take a timeout?”
“Yeah, timeout. Right. Look, you two, I don’t have time for this today. Settle your differences, or we’ll all be looking for another job tomorrow.” He knew that wouldn’t last for long, but hopefully it would get them through the morning. “Timeout,” Tom muttered to himself as he watched Marcia and Hector return to their own areas.
Another blip on the watch, this time it was an email from Frieda, Tom’s boss. “PL7 running two minutes slow this AM. Accelerate.”
Tom reached up and rubbed his temples: they were throbbing — already. He hadn’t been here five minutes and already his head felt like someone had hit him with a hammer. Another day in pineapple paradise.
He motioned for the dynamic duo — who had temporarily stopped squabbling — and told them to pick up the pace without arguing. He would get to the bottom of the bagging procedure and fill everyone in — as needed.
Tom breathed a sigh of relief as he left the staging area, but wasn’t paying attention — as he was prone to do on occasion — and nearly walked into the cart path, a specially designated area for vehicles only.
“Hey Tom!” the forklift operator yelled.
Tom lurched back, just in time to avoid the steamroller loaded with a palette of wrapped pineapples.
“Who won the game last night?” the forklift driver bellowed.
Jolted nearly out of his drawers, Tom snapped back: “Josh. Josh won. Josh’s team won, I mean. It was, um…” Tom tapered off as the driver, Freddie — known to the team as Forklift Freddie — sped away. “I’ll send you the video,” Tom offered, now almost a mutter. He realized Freddie couldn’t hear him, so he tapped his watch a couple of times to send Freddie the video.
“Oh shit!” Tom said, as soon as he hit SEND. It was too late: Freddie had received the video almost immediately, and watched it as soon as his smart watch notified him of its arrival. “Dammit!” Tom said out loud, and just as quickly another alert came over his phone:
“Employees are not permitted to view private email or video on the shop floor. Violations of this policy will lead to immediate dismissal.”
“Oh my god,” Tom said to himself while simultaneously watching Forklift Freddie raise his hand in a fist pump — probably the moment Josh had sunk the three-pointer to clinch the victory. “Oh, shit — Frieda!”
“Frieda,” Tom mumbled to himself as he headed towards the small office just off the line. “What the fuck could she want now? This never-ending packing nonsense will be the death of me yet,” Tom grumbled.
As he entered the doorway of the office, his watch buzzed. “What now?” Tom growled. He looked at his watch to see the newest message:
“Printer out of paper. Please refill.”
As Tom read the message, he saw Sharon, the PL7 team coordinator, typing something on her keyboard. Tom had to wait to enter the office until the small herd of people flowing out cleared out of his way.
“Sharon, surely someone other than me can refill the printer with paper. This is really something I think you…”
Before Tom could finish, Sharon looked at her smart watch — dangling from her wrist by one strand due to a broken band — and read aloud, “Printer out of paper. Please reload.” Sharon looked up from her watch, smiled, and said, “Oh, hey Tom. Great game last night, huh? And what a shot by Josh — wow! You sure must be proud of him. How old is he now? Is he varsity yet?”
“Sharon…yeah, thanks. Yeah, Josh, no, no, Josh is not varsity, no. That was…look Sharon, I need your help with this printer. I can’t keep running over …”
Sharon interrupted. “Sorry, Tom: I just got the message. I don’t have 5G yet, my connection’s a little slow I guess. Sorry: I’ll get right on it.”
Sharon got up from her desk, and began loading the printer with paper, while Tom flipped through what seemed like a ton of emails from Frieda. He decided to cut to the chase, and call her. He pushed the CALL button on his watch, and Frieda appeared.
“Tom, what’s going on down there on your line? I’m getting everything double-wrapped like it’s going to Fiji. I sent a memo out describing how this next shipment was going to Manitoba and has to be wrapped using one layer of paper and one layer of shrink. Did you get that message, Tom?”
“Yeah, Frieda, I saw that, my bad. We lost a couple more team members today — Julian has a Doctor’s appointment and I’m guessing Maria was late again — that’s three times for her, so I guess she never cleared security. Look, I’ll…”
“Tom, I need you to run that line. I don’t care who’s on it or who isn’t. Understand? Now please get that mess fixed. We have a major shipment coming in this afternoon: I’ll send you the instructions.”
“Great. Can do Frieda. Love the haircut, by the way.” Tom hung up, and as he did he thought he heard Frieda asking, “what haircut?” It was his running gag to try to make his boss just as crazy as she made him.
Tom had been known to be absent-minded at times. The phone and the watch didn’t help any, always chiming away with new messages, new information. Tom knew he had to keep his mind on his job, especially with this big order coming in. Produce Mart depended on these big orders to make quarterly earnings jump, and Tom knew if he delivered enough of these, he could expect a promotion off the floor.
He got up from his desk, and grabbed the stack of order slips Sharon had taken off the printer. “Thanks, Sharon — appreciate it,” he said as he made his way to the door. Just as he did, Sharon hollered, “Tell your mom I said ‘Hi.’”
As Tom looked back to respond to Sharon, he ran right into something hard and fell to the ground. With papers flying everywhere, Tom jumped to his feet while his watch chirped at him: “Tom, did you fall?”
He got to his feet, and suddenly realized what he had hit: Stephanie, his dream girl. Stephanie was nearly as tall as Tom, who was just over six feet tall. She had broad shoulders and could have played linebacker for the Pittsburgh Steelers: this girl was solid. Her long, flowing red hair made Tom’s bell ring.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you OK? Oh, it’s all my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going. You OK?” Tom was desperate and frantic: he had heard of hitting on a girl before, but never like this.
“Morning,” Stephanie said, barely louder than a whisper. “Over sleep again, Tom?”
“Uh — yeah? How did you…yeah, I did. Oh hey, are you OK? I’m so sorry, I…”
“It’s OK. I’m fine. Better get back to work, huh? I’ll see you,” Stephanie said in that sweet, soft sexy voice that drove Tom wild. She turned and walked away, and Tom just stood there, half stooped-over, watching her as she left.
“Oh my fucking god! I can’t believe that just happened. Damn! She smells like heaven! Good god almighty!” Tom jumped up from the excitement, and two fellow employees who saw him cheered. Tom shook his head, and made off for PL7.
Tom’s line was running smooth as silk, and he stood back for a second to take it all in: “this is how it’s supposed to work,” he thought to himself. A finely tuned machine can run well even when the boss isn’t around, and this is one finely tuned machine!
Bam, bang, clang, beep-op ding dong: the machine started to clatter, to shimmy, to shake. “You had to celebrate, didn’t you? God — Hector, grab that roller over there on three. I got this, you son-of-a…” Tom barked.
As he waited for Hector to return from the other side of the room with the new roller assembly, his watch blurted at him. “PL7 stopped by operator.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Tom answered his watch, and helped Hector bring the new roller around. As they did, Tom saw her again — Stephanie — walking by. He imagined her as he had always seen her in his dreams: smiling at him, only now, she was wearing his blue Produce Mart button down shirt — and nothing else!
“Sweet dreams, Tom?” she asked, as she slid up to him in the daydream. Tom reached for her, and just as he did, the new roller assembly smashed his fingers, catching them between the old assembly and the new one.
“Fuck!” Tom screamed as the pinch squeezed his fingers together, crushing them, and causing one to bleed just a bit.
“Hey man, you OK?” Hector asked, as he came running over to Tom. “I thought you was ready for it man. Damn: that shit looks broke. Better get to Medical.”
“Nah, I ain’t going to Medical, Hector. And it ain’t broke — broken. It’s just smashed — and it hurts like hell! Mother…”
Just then, Tom’s watch goes off: “Blood loss detected, heart rate elevated, pulse 94 BPM. Are you having a medical emergency?”
“No! No, no, no, no! There’s no freakin’ medical emergency. For crying out loud, I just cut my finger!”
“Tom, I gotta get this hooked up and running again. Can you move, please?” Hector motioned for Tom to move out of the way.
Just then, another alarm went off on Tom’s watch: “PL7 still offline: ETA to restart?”
“The fuck if I know,” Tom complained. “Hector, I’m gonna go wash this off. Get this up as fast as you can — but be safe! And no fighting with Mad Marcia!”
“Ok, man, OK. I’ll get this cleaned up; you get that cleaned up,” Hector laughed as he pulled the roller assembly back into position.
Tom’s fantasy about Stephanie had gotten the better of him: he had allowed it to distract him, and someone could have gotten seriously hurt. Hell, someone did get hurt — Tom.
But he wasn’t about to let one little smashed finger come between him and his dream girl. His fantasy girl. His — fantasy?
Tom realized there was no one else in the bathroom with him, and suddenly a thought raced through his mind: Stephanie. He could still smell her perfume on his clothes while he washed his hands, and it was driving him crazy. Well — maybe more than crazy. He was aroused.
Giving it no more than a quick second, and a glance at his watch — which was still blinking about his heart rate and pulse, Tom darted into the stall and slid down his pants. These daydreams were endangering people: he had to deal with her right now.
Tom’s watch beeped at him, but he ignored it. The screen read, “Heart rate high; Pulse 102 BPM,” but Tom never saw it: he was ignoring his watch. This time, he and Stephanie would not be interrupted.
As a few minutes passed, the watch beeped at him with regularity. The beeps were persistent, like Tom’s breathing, breaking into a rhythm all its own. But Tom heard none of the beeps: all he heard was the sweet, whispering voice of Stephanie, asking him if he had been dreaming of her. Tom leaned back and dove deep into the dream, the fantasy. With all the crap going on in his life, Tom figured he deserved a few minutes alone with his girl. He wouldn’t be denied this time.
As Tom drifted off to Fantasy Island, locks of long red hair falling on his face, his watch went from beeping to more of a siren-like sound. It was a repeat pattern, much louder than the beeps. The siren was trying to get Tom’s attention: believing Tom was having a heart attack, the device was announcing the medical emergency to Tom.
And to the rest of the employees at Produce Mart.
“MEDICAL EMERGENCY: MEN’S ROOM. SECTION C1.”
The video screen that recognized Tom when he arrived at work, was now flashing his face, name, and employee ID. Tony saw it, and yelled in the speakerphone, “It’s Tom Gibson. He’s having a heart attack in the shitter!”
Two EMTS carrying a backboard raced out of the medical unit and headed straight for the Men’s Room. Straight for Tom.
“Tom! Tom Gibson! Are you in here? Can you hear me? Tom? Respond if you can hear me!” one of the EMTs barked out as they entered the room. “Where is he?”
“Maybe he collapsed on the john,” offered the second EMT. “Maybe he’s coded already! Tom!”
As Tom came to his senses, he realized his name was being called — no, it was being shouted! And his watch was beeping like a banshee, making enough racket to wake the dead. What the hell was going on? “What?” he asked meekly.
“Tom? Is that you?” The EMTs arrived at the stall door together, and pushed it open without another word. Oh, it was Tom alright — in all his glory.
The EMTs insisted on taking Tom to the hospital to have him checked out. Any medical emergencies required either that or a damned good explanation as to why production was halted. After Tom stopped the watch from its tirade of beeps, the EMTs determined that his heart rate had been exceedingly high, a good enough reason to call it an emergency. Tom agreed that Produce Mart would be more willing to accept a medical emergency than some tale about one of their line managers taking a joyride in the Men’s Room, so he let them strap him to the board, and they carried him out.
Applause broke out on the floor as the EMTs brought Tom out, and carried him down the steps and across the production floor. Tom looked around at all his fellow employees, many of them old friends and school mates, smiling and waving at him. Just as they prepared to load him into the waiting ambulance, he saw Stephanie standing there by its door, with a look that could only be described as part horror and part joy.
The EMT closed the ambulance door, and within a second, watches everywhere started beeping, ringing, and bleeping: “Medical Emergency over. Please return to your work stations.”
As the ambulance arrived at the Emergency Room, Tom’s mom and son were waiting. Tom was confused: “How did you…?”
“We were notified,” they responded, simultaneously holding up their arms to show their smart watches.
For four hours, Tom laid in the ER waiting to see a doctor. One was coming any minute now. Sure. Just a few more minutes, Mr. Gibson. Try to be patient, Mr. Gibson. Let’s not get that heart rate up again, Mr. Gibson.
Tom was getting sick and damned tired of getting called ‘Mr. Gibson.’ Nobody called him that: that was his Dad. Tom was always just Tom. He really didn’t care for the formalities.
Finally, a doctor just past puberty showed up to examine Tom. He listened attentively to Tom’s heart, asked Tom a few questions, then spent a few minutes jawing with Tom’s mother, who had sat there quietly all that time. She had lost her husband from a heart attack, and wanted to know exactly what the prognosis was from the Boy Wonder.
“He sounds great, Mrs. Gibson. Really. I think Tom just had a bad case of indigestion compounded by some work tension. That’s all: nothing to worry about.” Doogie Howser finished his little speech and his exam, and moved quickly to the next room faster than a cat chases a laser pointer.
“Well, I guess I just have to buy that? Hmm? That you’re perfectly fine?” his mom asked him.
“Look ma, like the doc said, it was just a little gas. It’s no big deal.”
“Oh really? then why didn’t you respond when your watch went off?” Think I don’t know about all this technology, huh? Well, I have a secret weapon, you know. I sure do — right here,” she said as she pointed at Josh, who had fallen asleep an hour earlier in the other chair. “This young son of yours teaches me all about that techie stuff. So, I’m not so dumb after all, you see.”
“Ma, I never said you were dumb. I know you worry about me. Look, you want to take care of me? How ‘bout getting me something to eat? I am starved!”
“I can do that,” she replied, while gently tapping Josh on the foot to wake him. “Let’s go home.”
“Oh no. We’re going out — I want steak!” Tom announced. Sometimes Tom did things without thinking too much; going out for steak on the same day you have a ‘heart attack’ might not be one of the smartest things ever, but Tom didn’t care. He wanted steak, and that’s where they were going.
As his mom and son walked out of the room just ahead of him, Tom turned and repeated the words of the doctor: “work tension,” he said with a chuckle.
On the way to the restaurant, Tom started checking his emails. There were more than one-hundred emails — the most he had ever had at one time! Most of them were from his fellow employees wishing him a speedy recovery, and he looked diligently for one from Stephanie — which he found with a smile. He read, and re-read her email, but was interrupted by a new message from Frieda. Apparently, PL7 had done such a spectacular job that afternoon with the packing of a special shipment, and due to his diligence, Hector Baerno was being promoted to floor supervisor — the job Tom had worked so hard for. Hector would now be Tom’s boss, working directly for Frieda. What a bunch of shit, Tom thought, as they pulled into the parking lot of Sam’s Steak House.
Everyone was really hungry now, and Josh decided he needed to celebrate his three-point shot video which somehow had gone viral. Grandma was celebrating Tom’s health, but Tom — who no longer felt like celebrating — plastered a phony smile on his face and decided to not ruin the mood.
Grandma’s watch beeped, informing her the temperature in the restaurant was only 68°, and that she might want to consider putting on a sweater.
As their meals arrived, Tom watched with great anticipation as the waitress put the food down in front of them. His eyes glistened as he listened to the sizzle of the steak right in front of him. He reached for the salt shaker, but the waitress grabbed it first: “Sorry, Tom, but your pressure was over the moon today: No salt for you!” Tom dropped his head as if he were shamed, wondering what else could possibly go wacko today.
As Tom and his family arrived home, they noticed a pile of cards stuffed in the mailbox, and a bouquet of flowers by the door. Neighbors watched them pull in the driveway, then shouted good wishes to Tom from their porches. Everyone seemed to know what had happened to Tom that day, and even though he didn’t thoroughly understand it himself, he acknowledged their friendship with waves and smiles.
“Look Dad, look at that pile of cards and…wow…flowers!” Wonder who those are from? Oooh!” Josh prodded Tom.
“Probably from work, or my team — let me see,” Tom stooped to pick up the flowers.” His watch blipped at him, “Pollen Content high: 9” so he drew back his head a bit, and grabbed the envelope. “Best Wishes,” Tom said, as he read the envelope and opened the card inside.
“Glad to see you’re feeling better. Back to work tomorrow: hope you’re UP to it…signed, Stephanie.” Stephanie!
Tom nearly dropped as his knees buckled a minute under the surprised delight of the card. Watches beeped up and down the street, and Grandma, Josh, and one of the neighbors all asked in unison, “You Ok?”
Tom raised his hand with a waving gesture, and motioned for Josh to open the front door. Josh waved his watch at the sensor twice, and the door popped open.
“Heart rate elevated: Pulse 90 BPM.” Tom’s watch had alerted again, but by now his mom was starting to catch on.
“Hmmm. A note and flowers from Stephanie, and your heart starts racing? Is this Stephanie the reason for your little attack at work today? Does Stephanie get your heart racing dear?” his mother asked, as she walked down the hallway away from him, laughing as she went.
Tom let out a long gasp of air, and acknowledged her: “Yes, Mom. YES! Stephanie is the heart stopper — she’s a red head you know! A red head! Mom! You know how red heads — how I’ve always had a thing — hey, HEY! remember Julie? Julie…oh shit…what was her name? From tenth grade?”
“Livingston, dear. Julie Livingston. Yes, I remember,” as she let out another audible laugh. “Oh, Tom. I think you better get some rest. You’ve had a long day, hon. Go dream of Julie.”
“Stephanie ma — it’s Stephanie, not Julie, Julie was from — oh, forget it! I’m going to bed. What a day, what a day!”
As Tom started up the steps to his bedroom, an alert beeped on his watch. “Medical Appt: 8:00AM.” Tom needed to be cleared by medical before he could get back on the floor at work, and the reminder helped. “Set wake-up time to 7AM please,” Tom ordered into his watch, and it responded with a “Wake up Time adjusted to 7AM.”
“What a day,” Tom thought to himself. He chuckled to himself as he removed his shirt, still buttoned wrong from this morning — did anyone see his shirt buttoned this way and not mention it? He thought about his team, about Hector getting promoted over him; he thought about Stephanie — and the Men’s Room — and he smiled a sheepish grin. “Just a day in the life, I guess.”
Tom was exhausted, and he dropped onto his pillow with a thud. He needed a good night sleep after this day. And he wouldn’t mind if Stephanie showed up in his dreams tonight: he knew he was up to the challenge.
As a smile slowly came across his face, lying there, thinking of his life, thinking about Stephanie, drifting off to sleep, he was beeped one last time.
“Dental health check: don’t forget to floss Tom.”
The End.
© Radical Liberal 2023. All Rights Reserved.
I really enjoyed reading your story. What I found scary is that I can see the future you wrote about. Not in my lifetime, thankfully! Smart phones beeping and instructing you on what to do. Monitoring your heart rate! I just liked the story. Good imagination and writing. Thanks for sharing.