Diary of a Geriatric Scarlet: November 5, 2050

Today I sat in my velvet Barcelona chair well into the evening. The shadows lengthened into darkness and all the books in my library and my oriental rugs and my collection of omomori faded into soft blackness.

Through my windows, passersby on the street could see nothing, except for me. But only if they chanced to look up, which they rarely do. The glowing screen in my hands illuminated my moon face.

I texted my dear old friend Melissa. The young people these days communicate with those new-fangled corneal microchip implants, but I have no interest in such gadgetry. I SMS like I've been doing it for 50 years. Which I have. My thumbs are gnarled rockets on a non-tactile keyboard.

My dear old friend Melissa has long maintained that when doing favors for one's nieces and nephews, one must barter for visits to the assisted living facility that we, the elderly, may soon find ourselves residing in. She has an elaborate cross- referencing system developed over many decades and I am ever willing to take advantage of the groundwork others have laid.