Samantha's Date

It had been three weeks since the lips.

By now, Samantha had fully accepted her new morning routine: wake up, stretch, brush her teeth, apply lipstick. Red for work. Pink for weekends. She and Eric had a little tray by the bathroom mirror lined with tubes like candy. They sometimes got ready side by side, stealing each other’s shades and pretending to argue over who looked better in “Mango Tango.”

(He usually won. Much to her annoyance.)

Tonight, they were strolling by the river after dinner, fingers laced together. It had been a good evening—roasted chicken, a shared bottle of wine, and a ridiculous debate over whether they should learn ballroom dancing. Eric had joked that with lips like these, he was built for the tango now. Samantha had nearly choked on her drink.

Then, it happened.

A strange sensation bloomed in her chest and throat. Like a warm bubble rising, catching behind her tongue.

She stopped walking. “Eric,” she said.

Only it didn’t sound like her.

Her voice was high. Soft. Ridiculously feminine. Like a cartoon character’s idea of a flirtatious woman. There was an airy lilt to it—every syllable tipped with sugar and suggestion.

Eric turned to her. “Yeah, beautiful?”

It came out even higher than hers. Samantha’s eyes widened. Eric clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh no,” he squeaked.

She tried again. “Oh my god,” she said, voice light and lilting like a radio commercial for lingerie. “You sound like—like a Disney princess trying to seduce a herself in the mirror.”

“I sound like a chipmunk in stilettos!” he said. The pitch! The breathiness! Even his outrage came out sounding like a sassy coo.

She burst out laughing. “What is happening?”

“I—I think we just got glitched again,” he said, in a high, delicate purr. “And I hate it.”

“You don’t sound like you hate it, sugarplum,” Samantha teased, instantly regretting how naturally that nickname spilled out. “Okay, I can’t—I can’t talk like this. How are we supposed to—” she cut herself off mid-sentence, hearing how her voice trailed upward like she was desperately trying to get someone’s phone number.

Eric tried to compose himself. “Okay. Let’s try to speak normally. Just… lower the tone of your voice.”

“I am lowering it!”

“That’s you lowering it!?”

“I think so!?”

They both stared at each other, wide-eyed, voices totally at odds with their panicked expressions.

Eric groaned—except even the groan was soft and breathy and almost sultry. “This is worse than the lipstick.”

Samantha shook her head. “Nope. The lipstick was weirder. This is just… embarrassing. Like the entire world just got turned into a flirty voicemail.”

Eric gave her a pointed look. “Hi, you’ve reached Eric,” he said in his new voice, batting imaginary lashes, “I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m feeling shy.”

She smacked his arm, giggling uncontrollably. “You’re such a loser.”

“Thank you,” he said brightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment, sweet cheeks.”

They started walking again, helplessly giggling every time they spoke.

“So,” Samantha said, trying to adopt a serious tone—which only made it worse—“what do you think this glitch is?”

“Global helium leak?” Eric offered. “Secret government plan to make everyone sound like an anime girl?”

“A... bold new marketing strategy from the lipstick companies?”

They passed another couple on the path, both mid-conversation in matching high-pitched voices. One of them waved politely, adding a perky, “Hi there, cuties!” without blinking.

Eric blinked back. “Oh no. It’s everyone.”

Samantha nodded solemnly. “We’re living in a Barbie dream world now.”

They reached the edge of the river and paused, looking out over the water. The city lights shimmered, the air felt warm, and everything was just… ridiculous.

Eric bumped her shoulder gently. “Well… you still sound cute,” he said with a fluttery little sigh.

Samantha rolled her eyes. “Thanks, princess. You too.”