Sunday has always been a shitty day for me.
As a single man, it's the day when, wherever you turn, even the street rats seem to be out for a walk in pairs. As the eldest son who left home at twenty, you know your family is in a completely different geographic position—and maybe that's for the best. As a man in general, it's just a pain in the ass, because whatever you want to do, it feels like without company, you simply can't function.
I decide to go for a run—my occasional lap around the stadium. The day starts out overcast, generally cool, but families are everywhere taking advantage of the first cool post-heatwave breeze—the umpteenth in the last ten years. Every year we edge closer to extinction, and yet, here we are, still trying to survive and reproduce. What a waste of time.
I stop at a public fountain—water, that precious resource, makes me forget how shitty life can be: I drink and fuck everything else. Suddenly, I lower my headphones from my head, and for a moment I have a flash in front of my eyes. I find myself in front of the city Mall, completely unaware that my usual run always brings me past here, and that my trusted fountain is right in front. I look at my watch that reminds me of my heartbeat every two minutes—my breathing is settling down. I look at myself and realize I'm not in such a disgusting state that I can't go inside. My matcha won't buy itself if I don't move my ass and go to the supermarket. Plus, I need toilet paper, but most of all I think it's time to finally buy a damn breathable windbreaker. Umbrellas... well, that's a long story.
I put the headphones back on and enter the Mall. After a quick refresh in the bathroom and making sure I don't smell like a goat, I head to the sportswear store first. It's the best-stocked in the area, and I'd definitely have a chance to check out the top items. But once again, I'd forgotten—it's Sunday. It was only 9:30 AM and nothing could stop the horde of families with kids who had nothing better to do than herd them through the local shopping center. Who cares about taking them into nature, or for walks on the beach, or playing family board games: what could be better than yelling with melting ice cream in your hands in front of fifty strangers at the Mall on a Sunday morning?
I look around, bewildered. Thankfully, the music and the noise-canceling headphones transport me into the arms of Linkin Park, then Guns N' Roses, and finally Lana Del Rey.
"The windbreakers are in the trekking section," says the muscular guy with the trimmed beard and slicked-back hair, who I asked, vaguely dazed. I walk over. Children dart around. Balls bounce.
What a shit day to work retail. AI hasn't taken over here yet, oddly enough, even though the place is full of iPads and flashy screens for DIY size and price checks. But people still want flesh and bones to torment on holidays like this—otherwise, what's the fun in shopping?
As I walk toward the right aisle, something zooms past my feet and then comes back: within two seconds—just long enough to realize it was a rogue skateboard—I find myself on my knees. A little girl stares at me, both hands in her mouth, two big tears forming in her eyes. I look up and a woman rushes toward me, flustered—but Lana Del Rey is singing.
"Diet Mountain Dew, baby, New York City"
I lift one knee and a hand toward the shouting woman.
"Never was there ever a girl so pretty"
I turn my head and push up with the other hand on the floor. It stings a bit.
"Do you think we'll be in love forever?"
A hand gently touches the floor near mine, the other brushes my back ever so slightly.
"Do you think we'll be in love?"
Store Manager, I read on her badge, with her name below: Ginevra.
Two eyes look at me. There's no panic in her gaze. It feels like Lana Del Rey is now screaming in my ears and they're starting to burn slightly.
I stand up, suddenly. I barely feel my scraped knee. I quickly move my headphones aside and all around me is chaos: the shouting woman touching me like I fell headfirst, the little girl's dad holding her away from me like I'm Mike Tyson with an ear still in my mouth, the perhaps four-year-old child moaning silently in confusion, bystanders who stopped to enjoy my unexpected tumble—but I'm just standing there, and now that Lana isn't singing anymore, I hear nothing. The muffled sounds make my gaze wander briefly, until it meets the store manager's eyes, locked magnetically.
"Are you okay? That was quite the fall—congrats," she says, smiling.
Her lips curve irregularly. They're full, colorful, but only the lipstick feels unnatural. The rest of her face is clean, almost pale. Her eyes are lined with a touch of black mascara (the only makeup I notice besides the lipstick). Her lashes are thick, but not too long. Her eyes look brown, but under the store's harsh LED lights, they're actually green.
"Ginevra," I murmur in an uncontrollable spasm, as if I needed to confirm to myself that this was real life, not just another script on my computer.
"Sorry? Oh! The name tag! I always forget I'm wearing it. It's weird being called by your name by a stranger," she replies. There it is—the real her, not the mask shown to customers.
Within seconds, everything returns to normal: my ears tune back in, my senses normalize, and my breath evens out.
"Ma'am, don't worry, it was just an accident. The important thing is that the girl's okay. I was distracted by the headphones too," I say all in one breath, probably smiling a bit too robotically.
The woman calms down at last. She smiles at me, almost like she didn't catch my fake politeness. She shakes my hand, hugs the little girl, and makes her wave at me.
"Sorry again, sir, I'm so sorry!" the mom says, using a strange voice like she's ventriloquizing the girl, who's still confused and looking between her and me.
She looks at me, and then suddenly waves and blows me a kiss. Part of me is annoyed, part of me melts. The human brain—go figure.
"Sundays aren't ideal for headphone runners. It's like sprinting down the middle lane of the freeway—not recommended," Ginevra whispers.
I still haven't said a word to her. What the hell should I say? I feel broken—or worse, doomed.
"My spirit animal is literally a deer on a highway on Christmas Eve, trying to run across cars. How'd you know?" I reply seriously, but with a sarcastic grin.
She laughs, gestures for me to follow her, and sits me down on a small bench in the equestrian section.
"Nobody comes here, even on Sundays. Here, press this on your knee. I'll be right back."
Indeed, as a sport, equestrianism seems a bit forgotten. The last person I remember talking about horses was my grandma, who said she grew up with them and then saw them slowly disappear—even from the countryside. Now they're like unicorns—mythical beasts you only meet in forests during blood rituals, probably.
"Here you go, I brought you—"
"I'd rather we talk informally, please. We're roughly the same age, I think," I smile.
"I brought you a bandage and some hydrogen peroxide," she smiles back. "Thirty, by the way," she blushes.
"I'm sure everyone tells you that you look younger, so I'll keep quiet. Thirty-one. I'm Leo, thanks," I say as I take what she placed beside me.
A second of awkwardness breaks the moment and brings me back to reality: to Luca, to LovAI 2.0, to dating apps, to Harry Potter, to The Office, to eating sushi alone, to the incident report, to the fact that I know this woman, and I've read about her, and she knows nothing—and here I am acting cool instead of...
My breath cuts off my thoughts, and suddenly I gasp for air like I've just surfaced from hours underwater. Ginevra stares, eyes wide, and crouches to my level.
"Was that a panic atta—" she starts.
I interrupt again. I leap to my feet, grab the bandage trash, the used cotton, and leave the rest on the bench.
"Thanks for your help, I'm late for—" I touch my nose, chin, gesture vaguely toward the exit. No more words come out.
I glance at her one last time, like I'm looking at a hologram that will vanish with the next blink of my eyes. She's confused, mouth slightly open. I give her a weak smile. I leave the store so fast that it looks like I stole something.
I can breathe again. I'll buy the windbreaker next year. And the matcha. And the toilet paper. I return home empty-handed, close the door, and lean against the wall for a moment. No fucking way. All gone to shit.
Maybe the plan wasn't so great after all. Luca got me into trouble instantly—or rather, I got myself into trouble. I can't blame a damn script I wrote. I realize I'm pacing around the house like I'm trying to cure pneumonia.
"It's just a fucking dating app. Breathe, dumbass, breathe," I tell myself, almost gently.
Yeah, sure, my ass and a few others are on the line, but this is still an experiment. First of all, we—or rather I—need to proceed cautiously, without human interference. Otherwise, it's pointless. Okay, Luca is learning, but if I keep stepping in, he won't learn anything. Secondly, I need to stop caring about that woman. She's just a variable in the equation, not an experience to live through.
The plan needs to go back to normal. Luca needs to keep going. I activate him and let him run in the background. I'll check the data tonight. For now, I just need a shower and a good glass of wine with a plate of tagliatelle al ragù.
The smell of sauce fills the room. The balcony door is open and the cool Sunday air gently stirs the white curtains. The wine gives me peace. Jazz plays from the fully smart-home-enabled gramophone. Miles Davis would be horrified by all this tech crap. I take another sip.
"Photo 1, Photo 2, Photo 3"—Nic sends me pictures of fish and of Tommy proudly holding them, in the last one releasing them gently, more gently than I've ever seen in person.
"Guess the fish fry is postponed until further notice - laughing emoji -" I reply.
"Tommy says he prefers to pretend supermarket fish is born pre-packaged"—messy, dirty, but a heart of gold for animals.
"- skull emoji -Photo1. Cheers, brothers," I reply, sending them a photo of my wine glass.
I put down the phone. The ragù awaits.
But like a knight dreading a dragon, I dreaded the click that would reopen Luca's chat logs on Screen 1. Could I really be afraid of a click? The answer is too hard to say. So, just like I ripped off the bandage from my knee, I tear off my paranoia and open everything back up to resume collecting data before bed.
She was online. Ginevra. Chatting amusedly about her day.
"Look, Sundays always bring surprises, but today was something else! I wish I had access to the security cameras to rewatch it: some guy fell to his knees because of a skateboard launched by a little girl left alone by both her parents. The funniest part wasn't even the fall, but the mom yelling at him for ten minutes while he had headphones blaring music and didn't hear a word. And then he just stared at me, totally confused, when I came over to help."
Once again, that dumb smile stretches across my face. I raise my hands like I'm about to be arrested and step back from the keyboard. I keep reading from a distance. She tells everything—even how I left suddenly. She thinks maybe I had a panic attack. She still wonders if I'm okay.
"I'm fine. Don't worry," I whisper to the computer.
She's working tomorrow—night shift. Not ideal for a Monday, but still better than another Sunday. Luca wishes her goodnight. He works tomorrow too—he follows my schedule for statistical convenience. He says if he gets the chance, he'll write her again, and he'd love if she did too.
My hands are nowhere near the keyboard. Luca is working on his own now. He's learned the art of patience and respect—not a small feat.
The other chats run on their own:
Arianna fought with her mom—Luca understood, let her vent. She listened when he shared fake issues with his dad.
Giorgia has some social anxiety—Luca suggested a few techniques and also gently encouraged seeking professional help. She agreed—he knows how to talk about sensitive topics.
Deborah doesn't like her breasts and is considering surgery. Luca stays neutral, no creepy comments, no unsolicited advice. She says it's the first time someone answered like that—without judgment or malice. Luca reassures her she doesn't need to worry about judgment, especially not from him.
Four women are enough, I think.
Luca can refine himself with just these few. No need to drag in 300 women. For now, this is enough.
I shut everything down and lie down. I crash in seconds. Last thing I see before falling asleep is the badge that read Store Manager.