A man who had known me for a long time once said, almost kindly, “At fifty, if you keep fit, some women will still be interested in you.”
He was driving. I don’t drive. I sat beside him, feigning glee, my eyes on the windscreen, where a cow was licking a wounded bull on the road. No one knew to whom she belonged; no one stopped her.
The man drifted into a soliloquy on self-driving cars. Two thousand twenty-five was not far away. Robots would take our jobs. AI would write poems. Money would be hummed out of a million servers.
The feminists would destroy families. Those surly sisters would take the children and feed them kale for breakfast. Men would forget their place. Love would be disastrous for personal ego, et cetera.
“Only cows,' he said, 'only cows — if free, if they so desired — would still adore the bulls on these sweltering asphalt streets. And it would be a sight of hope.”
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