JOHN MARA - AIGal***2020’s Chat Breakup

John Mara began writing fiction last summer beside a serene New Hampshire lake after years writing business articles inside a stale New York cubicle. He writes with the creative input of his wife Holly.  They never fail to attract mortified glances when they discuss ideas and plot structure in restaurants. John’s short stories are published or forthcoming in eight markets, including Scarlet Leaf Review.

​AIGal***2020’s Chat Breakup

​Big***Tony: Sorry I can’t go ahead with our wedding, Gail, what with that spot on your brain.
            Gail’s brain tumor scrapped the submission of a patent worth tens of millions to her—and Tony. Plenty of babes out there, he thinks. I’ll find a healthy one—with money. He climbs out of a BMW Roadster and checks into a hot yoga class.
            AIGal***2020: You call off our wedding in a F***ING TEXT MESSAGE!!??
            “I’ll get you back if it takes the rest of my life!” Gail shouts at her cellphone. She packs a box with personal belongings and marches out of her office. Besides losing Tony, Gail’s brain tumor forced her to quit an artificial intelligence research job, where she had advanced machine-to-human text conversations.
            Before leaving, though, she programmed the perfect alpha-test for her CHATBOT conversation prototype: the resolution of Tony’s marital brush-off.
Six months later:
            AIGal***2020: Hey Tony, that little spot on my brain has played itself out!
            Big***Tony: I prayed for you Gail, every night. It’s been a lonely six months!!
            Not that lonely, Tony thinks with a glance at the yoga instructor in his bed.
            AIGal***2020: Oh I knew you’d pray for me. But why didn’t I see you while I was sick?
            Big***Tony: I just couldn’t face it. I miss you, though. Let’s get together?
            AIGal***2020: Let’s! See you at my mother’s tonight? Pick up where we left off?
            Big***Tony: Can’t wait. 7 good?
            AIGal***2020: 7 tonight it is.
            That night, holding flowers, Tony knocks on the mother’s door. Back to Plan A, Tony thinks. The patent submission will be back on. Besides, frolicking with the hot yoga instructor is getting old. As the door opens, he flares a toothy smile.
            “Thanks for coming around, Tony. I’m sorry, but the brain tumor finally took Gail yesterday morning, you know,” the maid says.
            “Yes, I know,” Tony tries. “Um, that’s why I brought flowers.”
            “Want to know about the wake?” the maid calls as Tony walks away—with the flowers under his arm. “That’s where everyone is!”
            But Tony doesn’t hear the maid; he’s busy scrolling through the time stamps on Gail’s text messages. If Gail died yesterday, how’d she text me all day today?
            Ah, who cares? Doesn’t matter. Tony thinks. He hops into the BMW and texts the yoga instructor.
            Big***Tony: Change of plans, honey . . .
            Plan B it is, Tony thinks. That’s that.
            But that’s not that. Big Tony reads a new text at 7:10.
            AIGal***2020: Sorry I can’t go ahead, Tony, what with that spot on your heart. EAT SHIT YOU F***ING CREEP!