By Sarah Pinsker
The first three Tru fanatics were already waiting outside Meetspace when Molly arrived to open the bar. They were easy to recognize, pushing up their winter coats' sleeves and glancing at the insides of their wrists every two seconds instead of their phones, each hoping for their algorithm-matched Prince or Princess or Princex to cross into range and light up their implant.
For all that Molly thought the implants were a scam, she appreciated that they broke people of obsessive phone-checking, at least a tiny bit. It was actually part of the marketing pitch: "Put your phone away and make a commitment. This isn't social media; it's Tru Luv." She was still amazed that so many had taken them up on it, but, then again, she hadn't gotten into bartending for her ability to understand people.
"Your group isn't even supposed to be here until seven thirty," Molly told them. "And we don't open until six tonight."
"It IS six," the tall one said.