Sunshine in a Bottle

"Excitement! Only $49.95. Got a birthday coming up, wedding or grand soiree? Liven it up with a little bit of Excitement, $49.95!"

Sean stared medially at the photo of the two girls with manic joy written on their faces. The smiles seemed as manufactured as the emotions in the bottle they came from. He turned and threaded his way through the milling crowd that had gathered to browse through the hawkers' wares.

Hands grasped onto his polo shirt suddenly, the weight of another person pressed against him.

A woman dressed in a motley collection of grimy rags was grabbing at him. It was impossible to tell her age through the stringy hair and desperation caked on her face as she pleaded with him.

"Just a few dollars sir, just a few. They took my daughter away, I need to see her again and we can all be happy, happy, happy. Just a few dollars, just a few" she moaned, clutching at him. When he brushed her aside, she grabbed onto the next person close by. People shifted away but only so far as to not be grabbed by the wretch, still checking their watches and looking for the bus to come.

The man who was currently being accosted said nothing, he stared straight ahead catatonically. Giving her money wouldn't make her go away, it would just make her bother the next person in line anyway. Her “daughter” was likely Dopamine, GABA, Oxytocin, Serotonin, or the odd Endocannabinoid and could be found in a myriad of bottles and colors on every street corner. Local pharmacies carried the same with a prescription, although those were only available to those who had exhibited clear suicidal tendencies and the only clear indicator of suicidal tendencies these days was a successful attempt. The coroner wagons patrolled as often as the street sweepers. Eventually she gave up and stumbled away, wailing her lamentations.

The bus arrived, punctual as always. Sean shuffled aboard with the rest of the gathered riders.

The bus deposited him a block from his townhome. As he walked the rows of uniformity, he let his mind wander. His neighbor was watering the plants in front of her house, a sprightly little garden of summer vegetables, a popular choice among gardeners who saw them for their utilitarian value. Sean waved as he walked by, his neighbor returned the gesture, autopollenization drones buzzing around her hand. Their exchange held no warmth, it was merely a tradition clung to from a past no longer remembered of what normal used to be.

Sean set his keys down as he walked into his house. Sensing his presence, the TV flickered to life as he set about making his dinner. After the required 30 second government public service announcement, the channel turned to the news based on his preferences. "Something easy tonight," he thought as he measured out a cup of rice into his rice cooker. He was too tired to make anything complicated, too budget-minded to order delivery.

"We didn't always use to be like this. We used to laugh and sing and play without a care in the world," came a voice from the TV. Sean looked up as he sliced the protein block into smaller medallions.

A representative of the Post Progression Party sparred with her interviewer from the comforts of their respective overstuffed chairs.

"There are a lot of people out there in the world that blame your generation for the present state of things. Do you have any words for them tonight? Any message for your accusers?" the interviewer asked.

The woman wrung her hands as she considered, then took a breath and said "We were numbing ourselves long before the world took away our ability to feel. If we had been more mindful of the changes happening in our environment, maybe we could have seen..."

“So your party is asserting that the changes are environmental,” interjected the perfectly composed interviewer.

“What else could it be? We’ve been trying to control nature for so long, sooner or later nature responds in unexpected, even violent ways. We’re in our seventh year of the latest megadrought, isn’t it possible in our quest for new agriculture we’ve pushed too far, spliced one gene too many times?”

The camera cut to the interviewer, a look of artificial shock and surprise drawn upon her face, as if she hadn’t heard this position before.

“So you’re saying the blame lies with our hardworking scientists-”

“I didn’t say-”

“Scientists whose hard work and dedication gave us the Florida seawall,”

“I didn’t say anything-”

“Scientists who, when Brown Thursday killed one-third of the crops in the American west, engineered the Kelpmeat forests that feed millions around the globe! You’re going to spit in their faces, that this catastrophe is a result of their ineptitude?”

“Can I speak? Can I-”

Sean changed the channel to the weather. The conversation had run its course, it would just be them talking over each other until the commercial break. People generally didn’t like hearing when they had wrought their own destruction.

The screen populated with weather events from around the country. He pointed his finger at the left corner of the TV for Local and the screen was overtaken with notices and warnings. Mild UV flares were expected over the next week, SPF 400 sunblock or level 1 environmental suits recommended. He made a checklist on his wrist PDA to pick up another suit. The disposable ones were bulky and uncomfortable, but he couldn’t afford the climate controlled versions, and that much sunblock left him sticking to surfaces all day. Sean set the TV to auto-scroll through his preferences.

He returned to the kitchen and finished cutting the meat then started chopping a vinion. He turned on the stove top and coated a pan with agave oil and pulled a bag of frozen kelp strips from the freezer. That would be enough for tonight.

From the other room, the TV was showing a recap of the daily sporting events. The plastered smiles of the sportscasters oozed with Excitement. Although not technically illegal, they were still a controlled substance and there was a stigma against the artificial mood enhancers, even though they were the only way to feel any positive emotions anymore. However, anyone who still attended sporting events these days was assumed to be upping on one thing or another.

For some though, it was too much. The news always had one or two stories of someone who got a hold of Joy or Bliss for a graduation gift or birthday and the neurogenic shock was too much for their system. They cheered themselves to death. Some said it was the preferred way to go.

The meat sizzled in the pan and Sean dumped in the vegetables, then tossed his biodegradable spatula into the compost bin. Every night it felt like the whole world was holding in its breath, waiting for something to happen. He turned and looked at the framed painting on his wall. A single lily in a pond, beautifully and delicately rendered. The art scene these days was a mess, pieces were either rigidly conformist, attempting to emulate the exact style of former generations, or they were Blissed out chaos, wild with reckless use of color and tone. Sean's painting fell into the former, a facsimile of a long dead painter named Monet. Every night he studied the brush strokes, the fine lines between the edges of the flower and it's dark surrounding waters.

Rose had painted it. He asked her once why she hadn't chosen the subject of her given name. She said "Would I be happy then, if I were a lily? Everywhere I look there are roses scattered, but what if I was someone else? Would I stop feeling like a stranger in an imposter's skin?" Sean didn't understand, but he wrapped his arms around her because she said she liked it when he did that. Rose nestled into his warmth.

“There aren’t any more lilies, or roses for that matter. Only you.”

She sighed. “Then it’s important that I choose my subject correctly.”

He stared at the painting, tracing the velvety curves of the edges as they dipped into the broad, fat strokes of the water. He felt it was important to hold on to, so he never bothered to take it down. He became aware that his hands were on the locket again. He pressed the clasp and the locket snapped open to reveal two hidden tablets of Love. Ages had passed before that painting. Sean opened his mouth to speak her name, to speak the long forgotten countenance of the life they had once shared, but his words made no sound at all.

The flower was always there, unchanging, unmoving. Those brush strokes wrought in indescribable emotion so long ago were forever trapped within the confines of the frame. He couldn't love it. If he wasted one of his remaining tablets on a night of passion, it would still be hanging there in the morning, a grim testament to his enduring loneliness.

The smell from the stove let Sean know his dinner was done. He snapped the locket closed and plated his food. He sat at his two seat table and began eating in silence.