The sun had almost finished setting, and traffic was snarled up outside in another busy rush hour. There was no snow, but the air was crisp and smelled cleaner than it had a right to smell. Inside the building, the walls were almost festive in some spots, while still barren and empty in others. The apartment door swung open, and paused about halfway as the keys were fumbled out of the lock. It finished its journey, and he entered, shutting and locking the door behind himself.

Mark was five foot eleven with short, curly brown hair and strikingly blue eyes. He wasn't fat, but he also wasn't thin. He was entering barely middle age, and he already had a well-defined paunch started.

He dropped his keys on the table near the door and shrugged off his coat. The apartment was silent but for the sound of his loafers shuffling to the bedroom. He needed to get changed in a hurry if he wanted to make it to the party on time.

In the bedroom, he dug into the closet to pull out his best suit and threw it on the twin bed. He took the time to stop in the bathroom and splash cold water on his face, check himself in the mirror and decide not to shave. He finished getting changed quickly. He had to make it to the shop before they closed. He'd already called them three times to check on his order, and each time they had reassured him that it wasn't a problem. He still couldn't help but be nervous, though. All it took was one mistake, and his cover would be blown. He grabbed his coat and keys and headed back out into the city, and to the shop.

The shop was only a few blocks away, and he decided to walk rather than wait for public transportation. The transport was always late, and he was afraid the shop might close early for the holiday. He felt the crunch of time.

He walked swiftly, partly to keep the warm, partly because of his haste. He looked in the shop windows that he passed, admiring some of them, wondering how others stayed in business. Some had already closed for the night, while others were just getting into the swing of things. He passed the bars, the sports agents, the casinos. They were just gearing up. Even on Christmas Eve they were busy. Finally, he came to the shop.

It was small, and unassuming. Unless you knew it was there, you were likely to walk right past it. The small sign simply said "Rentals" as it hung next to the unmarked door. There was no window. Mark pushed the door open and went in.

The inside of the shop was in marked contrast to its outward appearance. It was lushly appointed, with overstuffed leather chairs and oriental rugs. The counter was a healthy walk from the front door, and was always staffed by the most attractive women money could buy. Mark walked up to the same familiar face he'd seen every other time he'd been there.

"Hello, Beverly. I'm here for my regular."

He could see the computer working behind her eyes. They didn't keep the best ones at the counter, just the most attractive. Most men didn't concern themselves with the mind of their rentals.

"Hello, Mark Beyer. It's lovely to see you again. Please have a seat while I check on Cheryl and make sure she's ready for you."

Beverly turned and scuttled away behind the curtain. Mark took a seat, not quite able to relax yet. He would feel better only after he had Cheryl. He had a reputation to maintain, and he was desperate to do it. He inspected his hands while he waited, making sure his fingernails were clean and trimmed. He didn't personally care, but knew that when he got to the party with Cheryl, he would need to look as if he spent a lot of time on personal grooming. If he'd owned her, he would have to. These women were programmed to care about such things, and he didn't want anyone to know he was only pretending to own her. No one knew she was a rental. So far. He'd been able to afford her for almost every event that he'd needed her for, and as long as it was the same woman each time, the assumption was that she was his. He didn't even need to lie.

Beverly came back with Cheryl in tow. Cheryl was perfect. She was as beautiful as Beverly, but her eyes hid her processor completely. When you spoke to her, you could almost pretend she was real. At least, he tried to. He wasn't exactly sure what a real woman would be like, but from everything he'd seen on television, she was as close to the real deal as she could be.

He stood as they approached. "Hello, Cheryl."

"Hello, Mark." She kissed his check, then stood back and wiped off the small smudge of lipstick that she had left behind. She held out her hand. "Are you ready for the party?" He nodded, thrilled to see her again. Beverly went behind the counter again, to wait for the next customer. Her eyes glazed as she turned herself off. Mark took Cheryl's hand, and led her out into the street.

He decided to go ahead and get a cab. There was no reason to take the transport if he didn't absolutely have to, and even with the holiday rate he had a few spare dollars to make the night a little more special. He hailed the cab and they went to the party.

Mark spent most of the ride to the party just looking at her. He wished he could afford her full time, but he knew that her model was far above his station. Just renting her was costing him almost two full week's pay, and that was just for the evening. He couldn't even begin to image what her actual cost would be. It was beyond his grasp.

For her part, Cheryl enjoyed the ride. The city was getting dark, and it took the edge off its usually predatory nature. It was almost beautiful, gliding along in the semi-darkness, alone but for the driver and the few men out on the streets. Mark watched it almost as much as he watched Cheryl. It was a special night, and he knew it.

Mark and Cheryl arrived. They checked their coats and entered the room. He knew how they looked. He didn't flatter himself. Here he was, a plain middle-aged man--with an angel on his arm. She was thin in the right places, almost as tall as he was, and had shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. (He paid extra for the green eyes.) Cheryl was wearing a low-cut dress that hugged every curve of her well-made body. She was perfect.

Knowing how it looked to all of his co-workers and his boss, he crossed the room with her, nodding to acknowledge everyone he passed. He was showing her off, quietly. Without a word, everyone knew that she was his. The fact that they'd seen him at other office functions with her made it seem as if she was truly his, and not just the expensive rental he knew she was.

They made the rounds together, talking to everyone they encountered. She had learned his mannerisms and habits from their previous dates, and remembered them all. It seemed like they were a couple, and everyone was believing it.

After mingling around and getting noticed for a while, Mark went to get them both some punch. She could consume food and drink--some of the less expensive models couldn't handle it. He was rather proud he had one that could. He left her with a group of co-workers to chat and be witty while he went to the refreshment table.

He filled two of the crystal goblets with punch and headed back for Cheryl. He was half way across the room when he saw it. The shoulder of her dress had slipped, revealing her tag. She hadn't noticed it yet. He saw everyone staring. He knew that they had seen it and that they knew. Good manners kept them from saying anything, but he knew. He was embarrassed. Ashamed. It wasn't her fault. She kept talking, flawlessly playing the part. She wasn't the absolute top of the line; she wasn't able to pick up on the subtle social cues that were around her. Mark couldn't afford one that good, even for just one night. He came up behind her and fixed her dress silently. She turned to smile at him, putting her hand on his shoulder, fawning on him.

A few men cleared their throats, excused themselves, and turned to go. Only Robert didn't go anywhere. He just stood there, smirking. "Glad to see they're not paying you too much." He thought he was being funny, but deep inside he knew he was just being mean. He couldn't afford anyone; he was there alone.

Mark didn't say anything back. He just gently took her hand and led her from the party. He might as well leave. There was no point in staying anymore. They gathered their coats and went outside. He didn't bother hailing a cab. Everything that had made the evening special had already passed. It was still early, but he just wanted to be alone. They took the transport back to the shop. He knew they wouldn't give him even a partial refund for the early return, but he just couldn't bear to spend the night with her. The back of the shop was set up for late night returns. Cheryl had her own passkey built in, and she was able to open the door and check he rself in. He didn't kiss her goodnight. He didn't think he'd be seeing her again.

He walked back to his apartment. The night was dark and quiet now and there was no one around on the streets. He felt tired, and while the urge to be alone was still in his mind, he couldn't help but think he didn't mean it. He didn't really want to be alone. He just didn't want to be with a machine.

He let himself into his apartment and got out of his suit. He’d skipped dinner in his rush to make it to the rental shop and he was feeling hungry now. He put on a pair of boxer shorts and wandered to the kitchen. There was almost nothing in the refrigerator, so he grabbed a chicken dinner out of the freezer. He had plenty of those--that was almost all he ever bought anymore. He just never felt the urge to cook, especially since there was no one to cook for but himself. He threw it in the microwave and waited impatiently for it to heat up. The minute it beeped, he ripped off the plastic top. He didn't bother waiting for it to cool down. He brought it out to the living room and sat down in front of the television.

There was no point in turning the TV on. He knew that there would be nothing that would amuse him. At this time of night, the options were old sitcoms from years before he was born or new pornography. The pornography wasn't really his thing, he had tried to watch it before, and it just didn't excite him. He didn't understand how so many men out there didn't understand that there was something lost when it was just a machine. He knew he'd never been with a real woman; hell, he'd never even seen a real woman in the flesh, but there had to be something more to it. He just couldn't believe that the machines were that good of a replication. He considered watching one of the sitcoms, but knew it wouldn't be any good for him. He'd just wind up depressed, wondering how close to real life they used to be. He didn't know if he should believe more in Mrs. Cleaver or Peg Bundy. What was it like?

He burned the roof of his mouth on the mashed potatoes. They stuck, and he had to drink some water to knock them away. It felt like a few layers of flesh went with them. He drank some more water and gave up on eating. He hadn't been tasting it anyway. He threw what was left of the dinner into the disposal and went to bed.

He sang softly to himself as he tried to get to sleep. "Merry Christmas to me, Merry Christmas to me, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas to me."

k.s.s. chasalow is the pen name of Katherine Sanger—new, I think, to anotherealm. This dark tale of an ordinary man’s loneliness and despair pulled at my heart. How about yours?