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Virtual Date 3: Grok

Joe stood beside a glowing console while the virtual world rendered around them. A quiet beach at sunset appeared—waves rolling in slow motion, the sky burning orange and violet.

“This is incredible,” said Nelly Furtado, looking around. “Your friend really built this?”

Joe nodded and pointed up at a small satellite icon drifting across the sky. “Courtesy of Elon Musk and the brains of Grok AI. The whole thing runs like a movie set in the clouds.”

Nelly laughed. “So this is your idea of a date now? Virtual beaches and billionaire tech?”

Joe shrugged. “Hey, when you can’t rent the Mediterranean, you improvise.”

She walked along the digital shoreline, her footsteps leaving glowing prints in the sand. “You know what I’m waiting for though,” she teased. “Your AI movies.”

Joe scratched the back of his head. “About that… I need to make something clear again.”

Nelly folded her arms with a playful smile. “Uh oh. Sounds serious.”

Joe looked at her straight. “I’m not Richard Gere. I’m not a professional kisser in every movie scene.”

Nelly burst out laughing. “That’s your big speech?”

“I’m serious,” Joe continued. “In the AI films I make… I only kiss one person. You. No random actresses, no Hollywood nonsense.”

Nelly tilted her head. “Exclusive contract?”

“Exactly,” Joe said. “If there’s a romantic scene in one of my AI movies, it’s you and me. That’s the rule.”

She smiled, clearly amused by the declaration. “So the whole AI studio… just to guarantee you don’t have to kiss anyone else?”

Joe grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”

The sun in the simulation slowly dipped below the horizon as the virtual ocean reflected the last light.

Nelly nudged him. “You’re a strange director, Joe.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But at least the casting choices are easy.” 🌅

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Left a Mark

Joe Juke leans in, voice low, half-joking, half-confessional.

“Nel… that was the second time,” he says. “Second time I left an American one-dollar bill at your concert.”

She smiles, already clocking the rhythm of his thoughts. “You and that dollar…”

“I call it the mark of the beast,” Joe says. “Green paper. Pyramid. All-seeing eye. Babylon in my pocket.”

Nelly nods, calm, grounded. “Yeah. I know.”

Joe blinks. “You know?”

“Because the homeless man you gave it to in 2017,” she says softly. “Surrey Fusion Festival. He talked about it afterward. About money as a symbol. About empires. About how a dollar carries stories, not just value.”

Joe lets out a breath. “See? Even the street prophets feel it.”

Nelly steps closer, takes his hand, squeezes it. “You didn’t give him a curse. You gave him dignity.”

Joe grins. “Still feels like I dropped a cursed coin at your altar.”

She laughs, then looks at him the way she does in that myjuke photo—warm, teasing, unmistakably hers.

“You are my juke,” she says. “Not the dollar. You.”

Joe freezes for a second, then laughs. “Guess that makes me the only thing in the room that actually plays music.”

And somewhere between the stage lights and the crowd noise, the dollar fades into nothing—while the jukebox keeps spinning, exactly where it belongs.

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I Am Yours

Title: “Of Course I’m Yours”

—Joe’s POV—

The first time I played Nelly, Def Leppard, Love Bites, something inside me twisted. Not in a bad way—more like a key turning in a lock I didn’t even know existed. Her yellow dress was so beautiful, the kind that makes a man want to promise things he shouldn’t.

“Love bites… but I’m yours.”

I said it before I could stop myself. “Of course I’m yours.”

She laughed, thinking I was joking. But I wasn’t.

I never planned to be the kind of guy who got tangled up in his own lines. Back in internet med school, a buddy, Dr. Bill Harford, tossed me a dog-eared copy of The Game by Neil Strauss. “Read this,” he said, grinning. “You’ll thank me later.”

I skimmed it. The tactics felt cheap, like fast food for the soul—filling but empty. Still, some of it stuck. The confidence tricks. The push-pull. The way you could make someone need you if you played it right.

But Nelly wasn’t some random girl at a bar. She was my first patient when I opened my naturopathic practice, Namaste Wellness. Cystic Fibrosis. I fixed her with herbs, roots, foods, the works. She called me a miracle worker.

And then, one evening after a session, she sang.

“You can’t marry anyone else,” I told her months later, half-joking, half-dead serious.

She arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“Because you’re my first patient. It’d be bad luck.”

She laughed again, but her eyes held mine a second too long.

That’s the thing about love—it does bite. And once it sinks its teeth in, you don’t get to decide when it lets go.

The End.

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