Coffee and Danish

Coffee and Danish

She has a perfect smile. Straight, uniform, dazzling white teeth. It occurs to me that they might be implants.

I remember when she went head over handlebars off her bike and chipped a front tooth. I was ten and she was eight. The tooth had to be capped, and it always looked like a poorly shaped makeshift. 

She’s effervescent, chattering about how good it is to get together after all this time. Then I realize that she’s stopped talking and is looking directly at me. Her gray eyes are full of concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Um, yeah. I’m fine… I was just thinking. Sorry!”

“Oh, no, no, you’re always thinking, aren’t you? But something’s bothering you.” She reaches across the table and pats my hand. 

“Everything’s fine at home? You’re not having a health problem…?”

“Nnooo, I—” Reflexively, I reach behind my ear with my other hand and gently smooth my fingers over the raised area. Her eyes darken as she watches, silent now. 

I feel two contradictory pieces of sensory input. One, the soft, reassuring touch of my lifelong friend; two, the hard, recently unsettling presence of my life-saving device. For half a lifetime, it’s been my support. Without it, I wouldn’t be here. 

I make a conscious effort to breathe deep and slow, push my glasses up with one finger. My neck feels tight, so I rotate it—tilting side-to-side too fast, which brings a wave of dizziness. I feel disconnected. My hand goes again to the small bulge concealed by my hair. 

“This is going to sound like a really weird tangent,” I say, all in a rush, before I can stop myself. “Did you get dental implants?”

She laughs, more from surprise than amusement, I suppose.

“I did. What do you think?”

I bob my head in a slight nod. “They look great.”

“They should! They were expensive! I only got the front ones done,” she adds, answering a question I did not ask. 

I shift in the hard little café chair and bite my lower lip. How to pursue my line of thought without sounding mentally unhinged?

The waiter arrives with our steaming, aromatic coffee. 

“I’ll bring the kringle right away. Would you like cream?”

“Nej tak.” No, thanks. She smiles, flashing those sparkling teeth. We both know that we’ll need the bold, unmingled bitterness to complement the rich sweetness of the pastry.

“I love this place,” she says, turning to admire the sleek Scandinavian decor. The servers wear traditional folk costumes in black and white, accented with vibrant red. The very atmosphere is welcoming, open and cheery, in contrast to the pervasive feeling I have that something is wrong.

“So, did you want to know something about my teeth? Are you thinking about getting it done?”

Yes. No!

Aloud, I answer, “Mmm, yes, and no. I’m not considering it, but I do have a few questions about it. If you don’t mind.” I know she won’t.

“Oh, no, no, of course not! Ask me anything!” She means it. She’s gregarious, vivacious–an open book. And I read people. 

She picks up her coffee mug, cradles it between her palms with fingers wrapped around it. I notice she has nicely manicured, oval nails. My own are square, blunt cut and fringed with hangnails. We are so different, I muse, but I’m at ease with her.

“How long ago did you have your teeth done?”

She tilts her head and squints, considering. She doesn’t seem to think it’s an odd question.

“Mmmm…five years ago? Maybe six.” 

It’s been that long since we’ve seen each other?

Our smørkringle arrives. I close my eyes and inhale the memories. Her mother used to bake these magnificent, yeasted confections fragrant with almonds and butter. 

I thought we were just getting coffee, but I should have known; it’s in her blood. She insisted on ordering an entire kringle.

“Come on—my treat. We’ll each have a slice here, and split the rest to take home.”

The smørkringle is everything it should be, down to the bright tang of candied lemon zest. 

“Det er lækkert!” I mumble around a bite of flaky, chewy pastry. I didn’t realize I still remembered the words. This is delicious.

“But your mom’s was better.”

She looks across at me with a shimmer of tears in her eyes. Smiles with trembling lips.

“Thank you for saying that. I know why. It’s because this is too perfectly shaped, and they don’t caramelize theirs as much.”

We savor the delicacy in silence for a while. She takes a final swallow of coffee, her third cup. I wonder how she keeps those teeth so dazzling white. I bought a tooth-whitening kit once. It sits, unopened, in a bathroom cupboard.

I’m distracting myself. How am I going to bring up the subject that’s weighing me down more and more? I should be putting my burgeoning sense of panic aside and enjoying this outing. 

“You’re far away again,” she says. I sit up straight and take a couple calming breaths.

“OK.” I give in. “I do have a problem.” Her eyes widen in alarm. “It's not physical. Or, maybe it is, in a way. But it’s not a health problem. And you—I really don’t know how to explain this…you might have it too.”

“What?! What are you talking about?” 

“Do you know what neural data mining is?”

She frowns a little, shaking her head. Two creases appear between her neatly groomed eyebrows. She fiddles with her spoon.

“Everyone knows about microchipping animals. And there’s a lot of talk now about putting chips in people, for various reasons. But the people usually know about it and have to give consent.” 

She’s listening, not understanding yet what I’m getting at.

“I think I’ve been chipped.”

Her spoon drops to the hardwood floor with a clatter.

“You? Why? How?” She must think I’ve lost my mind.

“About the time my shunt was put in, the pet microchipping business was just beginning. I think they were being put in medical devices for people even then, for future activation.”

She’s shaking her head.

“And I think your dental implants could have them as well.”

She stops shaking her head, and just stares at me.

“But—why?”

“Well, it seems like, originally, it was just an overreach of scientific experimentation. Here we are with all the privacy acts, yet technology is now virtually capable of reading minds by using neural imaging. And, like everything else, it can fall into the wrong hands.”

She looks horrified, but I’m not sure whether it’s due to the implications of what I’ve told her, or because she thinks I’m a paranoid conspiracy theorist. 

“So, what’s—did you say neural data mining?”

“Yes. It’s a technology that allows information to be extracted from a subject’s brain via an implanted chip. And of course, now there are criminals who have figured out how to access the data.”

Now she’s nodding. I think she understands, but I’m not sure she believes me.

“What makes you think you have one of these chips? Or that I do?” She sounds genuinely curious, not dismissive.

I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I have, some sort of intuition. And it won’t go away. I can’t explain it, can’t prove it.

“Well, that’s interesting…and creepy!” she says.

The waiter comes over with the tab.

“When you’re ready. No rush,” he assures us.

She hands him her payment card with another brilliant smile.

He comes back shortly, leaning down to murmur something to her. It’s something she doesn’t want to hear.

“That can’t be!” she bursts out. “That’s my bank card! Hang on!” Frantically, she grabs her phone and taps at it. I’m tense, watching her face. Almost knowing what to expect. Her face drains of color.

“No!”

Her bank account has been drained. Emptied. It’s an untraceable data breach. She calls me the next day to report that she had a body scan, and a microchip was detected. She’s scheduled to have it removed.