Closed Loop

I told myself I wouldn't slot it again.

One taste. One time. That's all it was supposed to be.

But the chip sat there on the counter, humming against my brain like a live wire. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see her laughing in that field that couldn't possibly exist.

It wasn't just the sight of her. It was the air. The light. The way the world felt in that memory, like it had a heartbeat bigger than mine. Like breathing didn't have to hurt.

After a while, the customers' faces started to blur. Their hunger, their whining, their creds, all background noise to the throb in my hands, the itch in my spine.

Three nights after the first time, I closed up early. Pulled the shutters, killed the lights.

Slotted the chip.

And fell back into her arms.

It got easier after that. Easier to slip away from the stink and the noise. Easier to forget the rules.

I'd tweak the feeds, stitch together glimpses of her smile from one memory, her voice from another, the way her hand brushed mine in the fading sun.

Piece by piece, I built her.

Not the memories themselves. Her.

I stopped selling for a while. Let the shop run dry. Didn't care. The clients would wait. Or they wouldn't.

What did it matter?

Out there was rust and rain and broken neon.

In here, there was jasmine.

I told myself I was just riding it out. A bad spell. A little escape before I got back to work.

But somewhere inside, a part of me knew better.

I wasn't visiting anymore.

I was moving in.