"The chairs by the pharmacy counter are hard bioplastic and contoured - supposedly - to the human body. They're not the right shape for Harold or for anyone else who might actually need to sit on them. Too high off the ground, sized for people who haven't yet begun to shrink, and too straight-backed, unkind to vertebrae that curl you inwards like last year's leaves."
"Amazingly, the pharmacist beckons. "Mr Vetch?" He holds out a paper bag. "I have your prescription." Harold levers himself up. "Finally." The first day of the month is special. That's when he gets Rosie back. She's only formulated for a 30-day supply, which means he's alone for the last day of each month (except for April/June/September/November - and February, which gets weird)."
"He rips the bag open. "What's this?" He doesn't swear - they can throw you out for that. He pulls out a bottle with a single pill inside. "Where's my wife?" "This is the current approved grief mitigation formulation per your insurance." The pharmacist's sigh could blow an immovable object straight to Mars. "It's no different from the usual monthly construct." Harold shakes the bottle. Inside is a big pill, squishy and pale, but it's not a person."
Harold waits at a pharmacy counter on the first day of the month for Rosie, a monthly grief-mitigation construct formulated as a person. The seating is uncomfortable and other customers clamour for medication while staff ignore or patronize him. The pharmacist eventually hands Harold a paper bag containing a single squishy pale pill labeled the current insurance-approved grief mitigation formulation instead of Rosie. The pill is said to be "no different" from the usual construct and requires water. Harold recognizes that he will be alone on the final day of each month and cannot risk causing a scene.
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