I Talked About My Dreams, You Said You Had Them Too
Bright bright lights and all that. Can't even see with all these bright lights. So darn bright. Can someone turn them down? They're just so bright. Like little suns. Like brighter than the sun.
Aspartame couldn't see a thing, all he could do was squint. So darn bright. He reached out with his mind. That was better.
"Where am I?" he asked the machine. It just whistled back.
The lights started to spin. Or maybe they didn't. It was hard to tell.
The machine's lights stared back at him. It whistled again, this time unprompted.
Aspartame felt a dizzy sense of realization. He was starting to understand.
"I told you," said the machine. "You couldn't handle the soup."
He was suddenly back in the café. It was montag café. He stared at the menu. Everything about it reminded him that he wasn't ready for the soup. How could he have ever even thought he was ready for the soup.
"What would you like today?" the barista asked.
Aspartame could feel the word "soup" forming on his lips. No, he couldn't do it, he wasn't ready, he had to ask for something else, anything else. He tried to fill his mouth with "coffee" or "tea" or "Famous Jim's Famous Molasses-Flavored Superpumper Energy Drink". He tried to twist his tongue into all the right shapes, but it just sat unmoving in his mouth. It's squishy tip approached his alveolar ridge (but not too close) curving into a little cresent.
"Soup," Aspartame said. No no no no no no.
The barista gave him a sly grin. "Coming right up."
Aspartame stood there paralyzed, waiting for the soup to finish.
It felt like eternity. It was eternity.
The barista brought him the soup, piping hot.
It smelled so good. He wasn't ready.
He knew he wasn't ready.
Aspartame carefully carried the soup over to one of the tables. He set it down carefully. It was time. He wasn't ready. He dipped the spoon into its tasty depths. He wasn't ready. He lifted it to his mouth. He wasn't ready. He opened his mouth.
Everything faded to black.
"We'll stop there for today," a voice said.
Aspartame opened his eyes. He was in a steril room, in a sterile chair, staring at a sterile machine. He glanced a technician to his right.
"Well you made it farther than last time," the technician said. "One day your fragile psyche will be ready for the tastiness of montag soup. Then you can try the real thing and you won't need these lame soup sims."
Aspartame dreams of that day. He pulled thirty-eight Alaskan Space Dollars from his glittery little unicorn wallet and handed them to the technician. He quietly walked out the building, looking back briefly to see the giant xenon sign advertising budget soup sims. Next week he'd be able to do it, he was sure of it.
To be continued...
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