The delivery boy’s – really, a delivery man – pants were tightened around his ‘package’ by hours spent on a motorcycle seat, proving to a Holmesian degree that he was well endowed. From the way his T-shirt clung on to him it was clear he was one of those gym-buffs turned bike-boys due to COVID unemployment. His face was sweaty underneath his mask, and a circle of sweat spread from the brand logo printed on his chest. Cat didn’t know what excited her more, the thought of his body underneath this dry-fit shirt, or the fact that he’d just brought her pizza.
“Thank you,” she said in the most sensual voice she could muster. “Would you like to come inside, maybe have a glass of water?”
“No can’do Ma’am, thanks,” he said, “regulations. ‘njoy you pizza!.”
The tingle of disappointment in her stomach was surpassed by another one, further south, as she got to watch him leave. She closed the door with a sigh. This was the third serviceman she called in today; more than half hoping they would want to replace their motorcycle with another riding experience for a little while - or preferably, a long while.
She wasn’t an unattractive woman, not by far. She was customarily uninvited to her friends’ weddings: the women, so that she would not overshadow the bride, her male friends, well, so that she would not overshadow the bride. On any average night she could just waltz into the neighborhood pub and at least one guy would hit on her, and if she wanted something more, there was always that pick-up bar where you could hear hormones ricocheting from the walls, and that one dress she had.
But now, the bars were closed and Tinder’s officially become the dick-pic empire as men became increasingly desperate. She couldn’t completely fault their logic: video sex was basically a dick-pic in motion, and that’s the closest any of them could get these days, so why not let a girl tap on the watermelon before she buys it? Still, she hated it.
Just as she was about to click on that ad for that “Zoom-based Monastery" the internet started pushing onto her since week three of the quarantine (“’cause if you ain’t gettin’ any, at least get heaven-points for it”), the wisdom of algorithms revealed to her a Facebook group dedicated to the hottest deliverymen, messengers and other COVID-exempt servicers - “Butts on Bikes” it was called. It was Bumble with a side of salad. But just like this last disappointing one, none of them could ever stay. Always, ‘Regulations ma’am’.
She changed into her pajamas, avoiding the mirror so that she wouldn’t have to see the matching and embroidered underwear she chose “by accident” when she got out of the shower and decided to order a pizza, and turned Netflix on.
Her Pizza tasted like goat cheese and loneliness.
***
Her phone vibrated on the nightstand at some ungodly hour, sending shockwaves of grogginess through her mind. She moaned like a grieving animal and stretched her arm to reach the device. It was her sister, from America. There were only two reasons for her to call, and one was that their mother had died. Cat answered.
“Catherine!” her sister screeched without apologizing for the time gap, well be known to her, “I got you into the best promotional giveaway in the world!”
Oh, good, it was the other reason.
Her sister, who moved back with their mom in the States when she turned 18 to avoid the mandatory military service in Israel, was now besieged in New York City. She was lucky enough to be working from home as the head of her own PR Company - Sad Cat Mysteries - which was named, as her sister proudly explained to everyone, on a series of detective novels she wrote as a kid, starring her sister, Cat. The logo was a sad cat with a looking glass and a deer-hunting hat, so there was really no need for the revelation, but her sister did it anyway.
Needless to say, she was their mom’s favorite.
Every once in a while, she’d share some of her goodies with Cat, in the form of some especially juicy trial product she got to brainstorm ideas off. She’d say, “My company is not a one-woman’s show, you know. I have a team.” And then add one more name to her list of employees: “Catherine Brooks, Manager of our Israeli branch.”
“So, d’you remember that Ero-Tech company I’m representing?”
Cat vaguely remembered a vaguely impressive vibrator, but really didn’t.
“Yeah?” she said.
“Well, because of t-he si-du-a-sion” her sister uttered the last words in a combination of whisper and kiddy-talk, which Cat attributed to both plague-etiquette and the fact her children may have been nearby - yet another reason for their mom to love her more, “they want to bring their experimental flagship product forward, way forward, maybe years, decades – Cat, I’m telling you, this is the FUTURE!”
It was way too early for Cat to be impressed by a sales pitch. “Look, Danni, I appreciate it, but I’m really not into vibrators and...”
“Oh, it’s not a vibrator Cathy. Trust me, you’d want in on this. Please, trust me; just let me add you to the usual list. Please, Cathy!”
“OK OK,” Cat answered, mostly so that she could go back to sleep. “Ok, I hereby agree to receive promotional offers from Sad Cat Mysteries incorporated,” she said the formal words for the record. She was asleep before the call was fully disconnected.
***
First, the measurers came, in the yellow biohazard suits now required from any service provider who spends more than half an hour on the premises. They measured her tiny living room, moved things here and there, and left. Then, the “Perimeter Technicians” came, and installed… things. They warned her not to place anything within that perimeter and made her sign a form that released the company from any responsibility if such placement resulted, “In the disappearance, deformation or spontaneous combustion” of herself or any of her belongings.
By the time the installers arrived, she was ready and willing to place her sister within that perimeter.
They came with a large box that read – “Bungalove/working title." It was a tent, made of shiny tarp and accompanied by a touchscreen. The installer gave her a quick walkthrough. “This one’s to choose room layout, in this model you have seven, this one’s to choose escort type, and this is for music.”
He shrugged when she pointed out the music bar only contained “Maroon 5 Greatest Hits." “Trial version, ma’am.”
“Well, I can just upload my ow....“
The techie looked terrified – “No! Don’t bring anything of yours inside, don’t upload anything, don’t mess with the tablet! It’s Quantum,” he added with an air of importance as if it explained everything.
She nodded as if she understood, and they wrapped up their gear.
“OK, so before you enter you need to check your temperature oxygen saturation, by placing your finger here. The tent will not open unless you’re clear, at least not until all this Corona mess ends up, then, as you pass through the door there’s ultra-violet light to kill off any bugs you might carry on your skin. Not my fault - matter of trans-universal diplomacy.”
He handed her a tablet - “OK, sign here, and here. Now, this is health insurance that covers you from any STD you might catch when…enjoying the product, although we guarantee the health of all our servicers. Now, here you sign that you agree that your house at 115 Arlozarov St, Tel Aviv, would serve as a limited trans-dimensional hub and release the company of any liability for inter-dimensional incidents resulting from misuse of the product.”
The electronic forms were long. She pretended to read them and signed at the end.
Before they left, the techie turned to her, “Also, very important, after you get out the door when you’re done, you have to press “Eject” to end the program, otherwise you’ll just stay inside; please, read the manual when you have the time.”
***
There was a registration process and a questionnaire filled with questions she found insensitive like: “Where would you rather vacation?” but eventually, the whatever-it-was-tent was configured. After checking her temperature and saturation she really wasn’t in the mood for any more choices, so she just clicked “default” on room and escort choices. The tent door opened, and she entered.
It was definitely bigger on the inside, much bigger than her living room, like in that stupid British show with the hot guy and his screwdriver. Her trail of thought was cut by a man, who stood by a bed that looked pretty much like the one she’d clicked on in the questionnaire. He wore a dressing robe and nothing but, and gave her a low-gazing soft, devouring, look, over a friendly-yet-seducing smile. She was passingly aware of a drink cabinet by the wall, and Adam Levine’s voice singing quietly in the background.
