"Maureen McHugh - Virtual Love" - читать интересную книгу автора (McHugh Maureen F)

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 IтАЩve
never seen before. HeтАЩs a nice job, and he looks like he belongs in a French cafe.
HeтАЩs 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.

HeтАЩs 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 itтАЩs like everybody shops for faces at the same store. His face doesnтАЩt
seem made up, as if it might be his real face. Not that it is, of course. But it seems to
be. ThatтАЩs skill.

He smiles at me, since IтАЩm 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. IтАЩve 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.

тАЬHi,тАЭ he says. тАЬIтАЩm Ian.тАЭ

тАЬHi, Ian,тАЭ I say. тАЬAlicia.тАЭ

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 canтАЩt see the Eiffel Tower from
the window, but we could if we were outside.

Usually people ask something like, тАЬDo you come here a lot?тАЭ or тАЬAre you
local?тАЭ meaning is this a local call for you or are you coming through a service. I
always lie and say IтАЩm coming through a service. But he doesnтАЩt ask, instead he
says, тАЬSeems like someone sitting here should be sketching or writing a poem or
something.тАЭ

тАЬAre you an artist?тАЭ 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. тАЬI like this place,тАЭ he says. I donтАЩt 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 тАФ 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.

I look back and Ian is looking at me. I feel embarrassed, wondering if my
feelings were written on my face.