“Technology,” she says.
“Internet,” he replies.
She opens an app and the futuristic phone’s screen illuminates her face from below. “Isn’t it funny?” she asks. “That we are physically so close and yet our handheld devices disconnect us emotionally?”
“Social media,” he says, and nods.
They are on phones, but the phones are metaphors. And they are eating scones. But the scones are also metaphors, for the way society crumbles from our dependence on technology. Outside the sky opens up and rains dystopian acid rain.
She taps the screen of her phone and says, “I’m alienated from society.”
He can’t blame her for being depressed. After all, the first black robot president is dead. And ever since Government took control over Media, the human race has been tracked by Corporation.
“There’s a resistance happening,” he says.
“You mean the group of people who no longer use technology? The ones who found that our true freedom lies in a freedom from our handheld devices?”
A bolt of lightning strikes outside the café door, or whatever the British version of a café is. The resulting crack of thunder shakes their table, spilling tea and scone crumbs onto the floor.
“Look,” he says, pointing to the crumbs. “It’s society.”
What he means is that society had fallen apart, much like crumbs. Meaning the fragile nature of “civilization” had been exposed by selfishness and greed.
“So, how would you like to spend the next hour before curfew?”
“Right.” He scratches his head. “I almost forgot that Government uses drones to enforce a curfew on the whole world.”
“Sometimes I also forget. I forget that we have computer chips embedded in our skulls.”
Computer chips are another form of technology. Everything has turned digital and bad, which is weird because digital used to be good. However, nothing is as good as people treating one another with kindness, which rarely happens anymore.
“Soon there will be no more tea because of global warming.” He takes a sip of his tea. It is bitter, like the realization that there will soon be no more tea because of global warming.
Through the large windows at the front of the café, they notice a crowd forming. People are standing in the rain with their necks craned toward the sky as a dark cloud of flying objects spiral above the them.
“Those are the drones,” he says. But the drones are a metaphor.
A robot barista wheels toward them while sweeping the scone crumbs into a dustpan. “You two better get out of here,” it says in a futuristic robotic voice. “The penalty for breaking curfew is death.”
“This world is harsh,” he says, as another crack of thunder booms outside the café.
“That’s because we’re living in the future now.”
“Yes,” he says. “Bees are extinct now.”
The robot barista tosses the contents of the dust pan into a trash compactor. This action, it seems, is much like the way that humans have developed a habit of throwing things in the garbage even though those things still have value.
Meanwhile, the drones are pointing lasers at people below. It is eerie, he realizes, how the very things designed by humans are the things now taking over the world. And yet nobody saw it coming. Except for one quiet man who the world had ignored.
“Feel that?” she asks.
“Another nuclear earthquake,” he says as the ground shakes beneath them.
“Everyone is radioactive now.”
“We shouldn’t have ignored the brilliant quiet man.”
Both of their phones suddenly chime to alert them of new messages, and so they look down and began typing. It is almost time for curfew, or whatever the British version of a curfew is. Once they finish typing on their devices, they kiss and fall in love.
“Love still exists for now,” he says.
[Cut to black.]