Units Per Second

Laila sits in darkness, her naked thighs frozen from the bench metal. She prays a little out loud to hear a human voice.

A line of light cuts the black, expands into an exit. Laila squints as she passes through. The hallway beyond is infinite in its whiteness. On the floor, arrows flicker.

"Please proceed," says a voice.

Laila follows the arrows. She scans the blank walls of the passageway looking for other doors, other lives. She thinks she hears crying and stops. She presses an ear against the surface.

"Yuri?" she whispers.

"Please proceed," the voice says.

Laila lingers.

The wall glows gold for an instant and Laila leaps back. Her fingertips and cheek smolder. She sees a piece of her earlobe smoking on the ground.

Laila proceeds.

The arrows lead her to a small room with a screen mounted on the wall. She stands beneath it and waits. A face appears, generic and unthreatening, a studied recreation. It smiles to her from the glass.

"Laila. Welcome. How are you?"

She says nothing.

"How are you?"

More quiet.

"Laila. Welcome. How are you?"

Another moment. She senses the gold warming under her feet.

"I am well," she responds.

"Please wait for the door to appear and enter when ready. We appreciate your cooperation."

The face blinks off. A line appears in the wall to the left, creating a new portal. Laila walks through it.

Everything is scarlet. Laila is lead by the arrows through an immense room whose end she cannot see. Above, hundreds of spheres whir and buzz in unintelligible complexity through an artificial sky. Laila arrives at a circular platform and climbs the few steps to its centre. The spheres begin to descend. Each dons a face like the one on the screen in the antechamber. They brandish grins.

"Laila. Welcome. Thank you for joining today's session."

A pedestal rises from the centre of the platform. On it Laila spots a familiar book, bound with twine, her name written across the cover. Her eyes land on the rings left where Yuri once set down a mug of coffee without thinking. She should have forgiven her for that a lot sooner.

A snaking appendage lowers from one of the spheres. It opens the scrapbook to a page a third of the way in. Glued to it is a polaroid of Laila, age 22, in a graduation cap and gown. In the background of the photo is a banner that reads "University of Toronto - Class of 2075" with the entrance to Convocation Hall just below it. The rest of the page includes a second photo of Laila and her mother, a letter from her father who was unable to make the trip from Vancouver, and the pin given to each member of her graduating class.

"Explain," says the nearest sphere.

Laila touches her mother's face.

"My graduation," she says. "Bachelor of Computer Sciences with a specialization in robotics. It was June and it had just rained. My mother and I went for pizza after."

The machines swarming her begin to hum. The faces disappear and are replaced by a rapid-fire stream of ones and zeroes. The numeric outburst lasts an instant, then the faces return.

"We have valued this memory at 479.25 units per second. We will begin exportation now."

A light flashes in Laila's eye. She feels something rip from her brain, then a tepid flood of euphoria. There is a hole where the memory of her graduation once stood. She senses its periphery, but can no longer colour it in.

"Exportation complete. Thank you, Laila."

The sphere turns to the next page.

"Explain," it says.

Graduate trip to Europe = 520.05 units per second.

Clippings from major publications in robotics journals = 333.48 units per second.

Programs and ticket stubs from The National Ballet of Canada = 620.11 units per second.

More letters from dad = 840.55 units per second.

Grandparents' 50th wedding anniversary party = 950.99 units per second.

A rivulet of drool trickles from Laila's mouth. She watches through unfocused pupils as the sphere changes the page again.

"Explain."

Yuri's hair, curly and piled on top of her head in a messy bun. Yuri's skin, tanned from a long day at the beach. Yuri's legs, toned and strong from the 10 kilometre jogs she'd do every morning no matter the weather. Yuri's hands, soft and manicured with a diamond on the fourth digit.

"My wife," says Laila.

The spheres wait. Their droning does not falter.

"Please provide more detail."

Their save-the-date cards. Their wedding invitations. A photo of the cake with two bride cake toppers. Another picture with dad. He made the trip this time, wouldn't have missed it for the world.

"My wife," Laila repeats.

Gold under her feet. She tumbles to the ground, smells her charred soles.

"Please provide more detail, Laila."

A cramped apartment downtown. Late-night runs to get burritos in the snow. Camping in Algonquin Park. A bigger condo by the lake. Dancing. Adoption paperwork all but finalized.

"My wife."

The spheres wait again. After a moment, the faces disappear and the numbers fly by. This time it only takes a second.

"We have valued this memory at 37.66 units per second. It does not meet the required minimum number of units per second for exportation and trade. This completes today's session. Thank you for your time, Laila."

The pedestal with her scrapbook lowers and the arrows reappear on the floor. Limping, Laila travels back through the red until she reaches the white, then down the white until she returns to the black. She sits on her metal bench and lets the cold flow into her. It converts to the warmth of August sunshine.

A breeze in maple branches.

Laila's head on Yuri's lap.

The sound of life running through her lover's thigh.