Free Meatspace by Nikesh Shukla

the cold so there’s more chance people can see my new ink, so no need to layer up. But it’s freezing. I crave hoodie. I crave thermals. I crave warmth.
    I walk down the high street, against the contraflow of returning commuters, victorious in their ability to survive another day at work. I wonder if they’ve achieved the same amount of work as me, except with shielded screens and covert clicking back onto spreadsheets: watched YouTube videos, snacked, clicked through every single social network available; replied to emails as promptly as possible to indicate work efficiency and manage a total concentrated work effort of 55 minutes or so. We all spend our working days looking forward to our next meal.
    My phone rings. It’s Rach’s number. I ignore it. She calls again. I let it ring in my pocket. Undeterred, she calls me again. This time, my impulses can’t let a ringing phone go unanswered. Must connect. I answer.
    ‘Can’t you speak to me now?’ She sounds pissed off for being ignored. The first time I hear her voice in 6 months and she sounds angry with me. Nothing has changed.
    ‘No, I’m out. I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I say.
    ‘Out, well, that’s good at least.’
    ‘Glad you approve.’
    ‘No, I just think that’s a really good thing, you really needed to …’
    ‘Is that why you called, Rach? To have a go?’
    ‘No,’ she says. ‘I was just thinking about you. I wanted to check you’re okay. I worry about you. And nobody’s seen you. I worry about you being on your own.’
    ‘Well, I’m not on my own.’
    ‘Oh. Good. Who …’
    ‘Look. I’m fine,’ I reply. ‘I don’t need your worry. I’m a fully functioning adult.’ I hang up the phone.
    I have an @-reply on Twitter. It’s from Hayley. It says: ‘See you in a bit. I’m running late. Looking forward to it whisky buddy.’
    I tweet her back: ‘Pre-pub-dutch courage. Join me if you can?’
    I reach the pub. Mitch is at the bar on his stool and nods at me. I salute him with 2 fingers to my temple. Mitch, reliably, is always finishing a drink when you arrive, meaning the first round is always on him.
    Mitch asks how my day has been. I tell him that my brother has gone on holiday and apart from that and the internet, I’ve achieved nothing. Mitch knows better than to ask about my second book’s progress and the first one’s fate. Both are constant sore subjects. I say nothing. Mitch can sense I’m not feeling talkative. I wait for my pint in silence.
    I have the jitters for my reading later. No matter how many times I stand up in front of a group of various strangers, I still get nervous. Which is good because complacency is the public speaker’s end game. Mitch asks me my thoughts on a few new novels he’s read recently. I give answers that would indicate I’d bothered to read them. Truth be told though, since Rach broke up with me, all I can stomach is bad American sitcoms and Tumblrs of arty shots of naked females. Being dumped has brought out the lazy reductive sexist in me. Nothing else registers. I can’t be bothered to read. It was out of the blue. I wasn’t expecting it. I expected routine from her. I expected us to hang out and eat food and watch movies and make fun of people we knew. I expected us to cuddle and talk about our days and make hot drinks for each other. But now she’s gone and it kills me.
    ‘I like it,’ I reply to a query about one such book. ‘The middle’s a bit long.’
    ‘You are so wrong,’ Mitch bellows. ‘The whole thing is a lazy hack’s version of metaphorism.’
    ‘Is that a word?’ I ask.
    ‘Well, your tattoo’s still shit,’ he says, smiling at me.
    ‘Thanks.’
    ‘And you’re still an idiot …’
    ‘Why do you hang out with me, Mitch? You hate everything I say or do or tweet.’
    ‘I hang out at this pub. You join me. I’d say you’re hanging out with me. And I don’t know why you do that. Other than for the abuse.’
    Mitch walks with me to the Book Doctor, a