Girl Talk

The second time I saw Sylvie, she was sitting on the side porch with a cigarette, watching me flee my aunt’s bustling home through the bathroom window.

“Not enjoying the party?” she asked, covering a laugh as I walked past her, heels sliding into the lawn. My chest got tighter.

The first time I saw her was this morning—she was handing me a name tag and introducing herself as our Thetic representative. While my aunt’s living room became an ocean of box-dyed up-dos and swing dresses, Sylvie was a siren in plaid trousers and shoulder-length waves.

Despite this, she was one of the last people I wanted to see.

“I’m not in the mood for your snake oil.”

Sylvie placed a sharply manicured hand on her chiffon scarf. “And I’m not in the mood for your venom.”

I frowned. A glisten of sweat gathered at my hairline.

“I’m teasing,” Sylvie replied.

My balance swayed.

“You look pale, are you alright?” Sylvie asked.

“I’m fine—this happens sometimes.”

“Come sit.”

I studied my options: the step, the dirt, or the couch back inside. Heart thudding louder, I joined her on the step.

“May I?” Sylvie asked, cradling her fingers on my dress zipper.

I shot her a look, tensing my shoulders. Our hips brushed.

“It’s too tight, it’ll help you breathe.”

“You think it looks too tight?”

“Dresses are made to be too tight. How else are we supposed to remember that we’re taking up too much space?”

If my ribs could move, I might’ve gasped.

A dry smile crossed Sylvie’s face. My ears burned—I was suddenly grateful Mom made me wear my hair down.

“Oh come on, that was funny.”

“Do you always speak your mind like that?”

“Always. Now can I help you?”

I nodded and sat up, allowing Sylvie to slide the zipper down my spine. My grateful lungs expanded.

“Better?” Sylvie asked.

“A little.” I was suddenly self-conscious about my mismatched underclothes. The burning traveled from my ears to my cheeks.

“Can I fix you a plate? There’s a shocking amount of deviled eggs inside.”

A laugh escaped me. “God, no.”

“Tea sandwich? Canape?”

“You can try to sell me on a build-a-boyfriend, but you’ll never sell me on Aunt Paula’s cooking.”

Sylvie cocked her head. “Build-a-boyfriend. I like that.”

I inhaled, taking in a few dwindling wisps of Sylvie’s cigarette.

“So, taking your ten-minute break too?”

“My mother was hovering over my order form. Your presentation really inspired her.”

“That is what I’m here for.”

I nodded. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“Preaching to the choir. Took me over three months to get completely off book for these things,” Sylvie said. “What’s your biggest concern about getting a Thetic right now?”

I scowled.

“I’m on my break, this is just girl talk.”

“No funny business?”

With a red fingernail, Sylvie traced an X over her chest.

“Well, for one, they’re not exactly cheap.”

“Oh, we don’t use the c-word at Thetic—we prefer the f-word.”

“Pardon?”

“‘Cheap’ implies low-quality; there are no cheap Thetic units because our customers aren’t cheap,” Sylvie explained, taking the last drag of her cigarette before snuffing it on the step. “We say ‘frugal,’ or ‘economical,’ ‘affordable.’”

I slumped forward, nesting my chin in my hand. The sun, filtered through the oak leaves above us, warmed my back.

“It’s all so phony. Nothing’s genuine.”

“It’s just marketing—”

“You’re forcing a lie down everyone’s throats under the guise of party games and punch. It’s sick.”

“Would you rather I sell you a vacuum or a casserole dish?”

“I’d rather have one of those than some robot husband.”

Sylvie’s eyes narrowed, dropping the lightness from her voice. “And which part of that is really the issue for you?”

The words landed on my face like a slap.

Sylvie reached into her purse and pulled out her cigarette case and lighter.

“I’m going to let you in on a company secret,” she said. “People don’t pay us for units. They don’t pay us for upgrades or fancy tech or cosmetics—they don’t even pay us for the love or companionship.”

Sylvie drew her face closer to mine. I flicked my gaze to my knees.

“People pay us because we give them the life they wish to present to others.”

She positioned a cigarette in the crook of her lips. “You think brushing off backseat bingo with the son-of-the-sister-of-your-mother’s-hairstylist is you living genuinely? Please.”

A lump crept into my throat.

“We’re all selling something. Call me a snake oil saleswoman all you want.” Sylvie shrugged. “It takes one to know one.”

Silence hung between us like a sparrow weighing down a branch.

After a few tries, Sylvie got her cigarette lit.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to hold my voice steady.

Sylvie shook her head. “No, that was unkind of me.”

“But you weren’t wrong.” I held a hand out for Sylvie’s cigarette.

Sylvie handed it over. “That makes it more unkind.”

I sent the smoke into the breeze. A rogue, unexpected tear fell onto my dress.

“I swear I’m not trying to be difficult,” I said, returning the cigarette. “I’m lucky we can afford something like this—I don’t want them wasting their money on something I don’t want.”

“You don’t want freedom?”

Nobody had asked me that before.

“Let’s say we order you a stock Thetic unit. Tall, dark, and handsome AesThetic, throw in the KinaesThetic self-maintenance feature—right now it’s buy-one-get-one on hardware, so we throw in EmpaThetic too for emotional intelligence—whatever. We order him for you. You know what happens then?”

Sylvie took another drag before continuing.

“You move out of your parents’ and get a nice, reasonable apartment. The space is all yours, he just needs an outlet. You keep your job because he legally cannot enter the workforce, and while you’re at work, he maintains the home, maybe cooks you dinner if that’s what you want. You can shut him off, keep him in a closet, and bring him out when your mother visits. No expectations, no questions. That’s not me trying to sell you a ‘build-a-boyfriend.’ That’s me offering you a life.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. Inside, a widow started celebrating.

“I have eyes. If you really wanted a man, you’d have one by now.”

My stomach sank. Holding the cigarette between her lips, Sylvie pulled a pen and a Thetic Corporate business card from her handbag.

“Listen, sometimes people like to get a second skin as a backup. However, it doesn’t necessarily need to be a duplicate of the first one.”

Sylvie eyed me before flipping the card over. I watched her drag a small smudge of her lipstick across its ivory face as she wrote her phone number. I read somewhere that you can tell how generous someone was by how they wrote their O’s and zeroes.

“We have a bunch of floor models we’re retiring. If you call me before next Friday, I can get you one of those skins for a fraction of the cost—something you’ll like—and I’ll be discreet about it on the receipt.”

She fanned the card for a few moments before slipping it into my skirt pocket. “Think about it.”

I felt the weight of it; the sharp edges of the corners, the narrow loops of her zeroes.

“Jolene?” A voice rang from the front door. “Jolene?”

“That’s my mom,” I hissed. “Zip me up!”

My mom rushed into the driveway, neck craning toward the belly of the cul-de-sac.

Sylvie tugged on the zipper, which stuck every chance it got. Her perfume smelled like powder and jasmine.

“Hurry!”

“I’m trying!”

“Jolene!” My mother rushed over, her face twisting behind her harlequin glasses. “What on earth are you doing?”

“Mom—”

“Your daughter was just joining me for some air,” Sylvie rose from the step. “I’m in search of a new dress, and she was kind enough to let me peep at the tag in hers.”

I nodded as I stood and smoothed out my skirt.

“I didn’t see you step out,” Mom said. “I was worried.”

“She’s been lovely company. We were actually having a bit of a one-on-one consultation regarding her order!”

“Oh?”

I nodded again.

“She’s very convincing—I usually charge for that!”

My mother glanced at me, then to Sylvie as she slipped back into her Thetic saleswoman persona, telling her all about the strapping-but-affordable son-in-law they were going to build for her. While they made their way to the front door, I trailed behind, watching my mother light up with glee. The news made her look two inches taller. Perhaps the burden of a spinster daughter had been that heavy.

A wave of laughter spilled out from the house as Mom and Sylvie entered. I held my breath, wondering if Sylvie would look back at me; if I’d get to commit her Fire and Ice smile to memory.

I cast my eyes down, placing a hand over the card in my pocket.