"McHugh-VirtualLove" - читать интересную книгу автора (McHugh Maureen F)

your troubles for hours and he always remembers your name. The only problem is
that if the sysop is monitoring, she hears your problems, too.

There are half a dozen people in the cafe; sitting by the window is a guy I've
never seen before. He's a nice job, and he looks like he belongs in a French
cafe. He's sitting, either accidentally or on purpose, where the light falls on
him like a figure in a Dutch painting. Vermeer. His face is the play of light
and shadow, full-lipped and dark eyed and young. The face of an angel.

He's interesting. All the men are handsome, but right now there seems to be a
lot of cynical, world-weary, channing matinee idol types running the virtual
scene, sometimes it's like everybody shops for faces at the same store. His face
doesn't seem made up, as if it might be his real face. Not that it is, of
course. But it seems to be. That's skill.

He smiles at me, since I'm looking at him, a bit shy. So I take my glass of red
wine and sit down across from him. To move, I point my finger and my system
moves me through the environment, but the interface is configured so that for
anyone watching I just walk. I've programmed different walks for all my personas
using a bootleg spline program; Sulia walks like a cheetab, but Alicia has a
subtle walk. I like to think she looks as if she might have taken dance when she
was younger. I would have liked to have taken dance.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Ian."

"Hi, Ian," I say. "Alicia."

The table top is scarred wood. Outside the day is beautiful, the sky is clear
blue and people are out on the Champs Elysees. We can't see the Eiffel Tower
from the window, but we could if we were outside.

Usually people ask something like, "Do you come here a lot?" or "Are you local?"
meaning is this a local call for you or are you coming through a service. I
always lie and say I'm coming through a service. But he doesn't ask, instead he
says, "Seems like someone sitting here should be sketching or writing a poem or
something."

"Are you an artist?" I ask. But of course, I know he is. Looking at him I can
see his work, he is his work.

But he shakes his head. "I like this place," he says. I don't know if he means
the Salon, or the cafe. Or maybe this place in the window. He looks out the
window and I look out. A couple is strolling by arm in arm. She is pale and
red-haired, the quintessential French girl, and he is dark-skinned, looks like a
sailor. They are perfect, simple, uncomplicated. He stops to tie her scarf and
for a moment I wish I were her -- which is odd, because at this moment I am
Alicia, and I am whole and graceful. I am what I wish to be. That couple is not
even real, they are window dressing, generated by the sysop, the system
operator, whose name is Cassia and who I have spoken to.