Roxie Part 2

Feeling beaten to a pulp, I stand brushing my teeth with an electronic device. Every muscle aches. Wait. What? Where are my dentures?

I stick my hand inside my mouth and feel my gums. Yes, teeth are there. I look into the mirror. Wait. What? Where are my bifocals?

I look around the room. It seems like my bathroom, yet it doesn’t. The countertop is almost bare, yet my artworks are on its walls. I open the cabinet where I keep my medicinals. It is empty.

I hear a mechanical voice from nearby. “What’s taking you so long? Don’t make me come in there.”

I recognize it as the hated robot and don’t want to be punished. I hurry to wash my face, then can’t help staring at my corn-silk hair, which looks similar to what Mia Farrow wore in the 60s. My mass of gray snarls gone. I marvel that I appear to be 16 or so. It doesn’t make sense. When I was that age, I wore coke-bottle glasses! This figure is lush and not at all pudgy.

At last, I open the door. Roxie blocks my way. “Lord, took you long enough to do your ablutions, you silly git.” Her machinery whirls, emitting bleeps and blips. “Why they chose you for cryogenics is beyond me. You must go to sleep, so the process can be completed and updated. You haven’t stabilized to the year 2050 yet.”

I do my best to ignore the robot as I get out shorts and a tee. Wait. What? 2050! That can’t be right. It would mean I’m 98 years old. I feel a stinging stab to my hip before I pull on the shorts.

Roxie has turned back the bed covers and motions to me. What?! 2050. I’m 98…98…98! Zzz.