Memory Rental

Lydia stood next in line at the Memory Bank. A light flashed over window number six. She approached and scanned the code tattooed on her right wrist. Behind the clerk, a Central Government sign read: Memories are a privilege, not a right.

“Your life is set to expire this Tuesday,” the clerk said. “Would you like to use the remainder of your account balance?”

Lydia nodded.

“I see you were married, but your husband’s life expired thirty-nine years ago.”

A sharp grief stabbed at her heart, though she couldn’t remember a husband. “I’ll take whatever I can get with what’s left on my account.”

The clerk scrolled through his screen. “Your file is flagged for nostalgia taxation, and emotional authenticity requires a Level Two permit.”

Lydia scanned the code on her left wrist.

The clerk rotated the monitor toward her. “Your permit has cleared. Please select the memory you’d like to access.”

She pressed the button marked Falling in love. The ache in her chest told her she must have been deeply in love once, and a yearning pulsed through her body. She thought of the junkies on the street who wasted their balances on cheap drugs, chasing memories instead of going through the Memory Bank. The drugs never worked, but once the longing took hold, you couldn’t stop.

“Booth number eleven is open. You may access your memory there.”

Inside the booth, Lydia pulled the curtain closed, put on the VR headset, and pressed play.

Edward wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. “You are the love of my life,” he said. She inhaled the sandalwood musk of his neck. Warmth spread through her body, and tears pooled inside the headset.

The screen went black.

Then the system reply: Insufficient balance.