conversion

Conversion

I'd been seeing Pol for only a few days at that point. He had just departed for the bathroom, and I was turning on the television to watch the news. I've since been told the election was something of a sham, which is comforting, but I find myself even now compelled to believe it was instead the sign which led to my relevation.
I took a sip from the soda. It was a hot day, hotter than the same day last year, as had become the new norm, so the odd flavor, somewhat uncharacteristic, I chalked up to either sweat or merely feeling out of sorts. "How can we ourselves be anything but liars," some wise man once said in a book.

I desperately wished I could ask Pol what he thought of this, but he wasn't in the room even now, a fact which bothered me a little. Perhaps this moment was only for me, and nobody else, but then what good could it do me? The robot anchor droned on:
"A human slavery ring in Malaysia was dismantled today; with their liberation, productivity increased 200%. Spokespersons for Matchbox couldn't be reached for comment at this time."
I became suddenly glad Pol wasn't here. I was having a bad flesh day. The chrome and metal of my skull had accidentally come unhooked, causing my skin to slide off. It would be difficult to explain, and embarrassing as well; surely I looked like I'd had a stroke. I clutched my hand to my temple and looked for somewhere to lean that would look natural.