These fashionable jeans weren't really mine.

We'd hidden the truth about ourselves for so long the false identities became who we were. Our old selves were just vague faded dreams, inclinations that popped up from time to time only to be swept back into the drawers along with dust and useless knick knacks. Gomez, as she had been known to me for the last five years, steamed milk for a latte, her blonde bangs hung in front of her eyes. She was forty but looked twenty two. The Long Horns coffee shop was set up by the government for those of us who were witnesses in crimes against the state. We comfortable in our lives. Aside from our pay checks, we had living stipends and government issued computers. Housing was taken care of too. But our lives were not our own. We were encouraged to live without worry, to ride fixies and drink beer, to start bands and performance art collectives. Anything on the fringe that wouldn't be taken seriously by the mainstream was considered safe. We were tracked with the chips in our heads. Gomez served up the beverage and called it out. She wiped down the counter and looked at me as I rearranged the pastry case.

"Today's my son's 14th birthday."
"I'm sorry," I replied and went back to the scones.

We weren't supposed to talk about our old days. Later on, while I took a break I saw Gomez on a payphone down the block. When she came back I could tell she'd been crying. The next morning she didn't show up for her shift.