You return to the rack.

You return to the rack.

"I'm saving the last card for an oopsie of my own, I'm afraid. You'll have to make do with the one."

Examine the cards.

One reads 'Condolences for my Actions' in cursive text bordered with tastefully ornamental flowers. The other features a cartoon steamboat labelled 'SS I'm Sorry'.

Boat! Splish Splash! Tears are ocean!

The soft pink hue, the artfully arranged petals... 'Condolences for my Actions' drips with tasteful remorse.

What about the boat?

Conceptually fraught, thematically wet.

Flowers. Can't go wrong with that classic.

Never underestimate the complicated lexicon of floriography. If those were daisies then this would be an invitation to a bisexual orgy.

Feel the cards.

You find no tangible difference between them. One's as good as the other.

"Shocking, isn't it? That anyone would choose the lower quality paper, I mean. You can really feel the contrition in the superior card, the grammage basically apologises for you."

'Grammage'... Esoteric... Stationary concept...

"What is 'grammage'?"

"Grammage is... grammage, of course."

Interesting. A secret the Photo Shop elects to keep even from itself.

Feel them again, discerningly.

You take one of each type in hand and gently rub them between your thumb and forefinger.

There is a difference -- you brush against it, but all too light, too quick.

This is bullshit.

"You must have got it that time."

"It needs to be the nicest paper -- I'll keep trying."

"That's right. So many people these days seem to be losing respect for the simple elegance of material gesturing."

"Back in the Superbloc we don't need apology cards, only ruthless self-criticism."

"And what good does that do the person you've wronged? They can't put a little magnet on that and attach it to their fridge -- it exists only within your head."

SELF-CRITICISM SESSIONS ARE OPEN TO ALL! THERE IS NO 'PERSON WRONGED', ONLY THE PARTY DISHONOURED.

"Needless bureaucracy. We should be able to beam apologies directly to one another's minds."

"Do you know what personal touch means? Both personal and touch. Invisible laser beams get you neither."

"I think I must be feeling them wrong."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out, CASCADE."

The verge of a smirk. She likes watching your fingers flail.

"I'll probably just go by the pictures." (Back.)

"I see. You're one of those."

... Grammage?

"Which card is the good one? They're the same price."

"The one that feels good! Quality is measured in more than Sol." She laughs. "Don't be silly. Give them another rub, it's obvious."

"There is no difference between these two cards."

"Well." She purses her lips. "Let's just hope that whoever you wronged is equally undiscerning."

Better choose right, that Eszti bitch is discerning as fuck.

"Constanz. Grammage is bullshit."

"I bet PSEUDOPOD would have been able to tell."

Feel which card is better.

You dissolve yourself to an atomic level, making your consciousness into a tiny sensory warrior at the end of your own fingertips.

Feel your face.

The valleys and crags of your fingerprints sink into your pores -- grease squelches free as you probe your cheeks.

Itch inside your nose.

Your index finger sinks into the realm of your nostril, to the first knuckle. Hair, goo, crust.

Real. Human.

"... CASCADE?"

"This is an Opera kinesthetic manouvre. Try it. Feels good."

Maintaining eye contact with you, Constanz tentatively pushes her pinky finger into her nostril.

"Right?"

"Not bad. Not bad at all."

TOTAL CULTURAL VICTORY.

"We're bonding."

"There's a certain relief to it, I'll give the Opera that."

"It's my nose, I do what I want."

"You're pawing my cards, operant."

"Don't tell Melita."

"You dial her numbers with those fingers."

Fingers. Inside. Melita.

Stop, I'm disgusting. (Back.)

You recoil from your own foul flesh.

Feel 'Condolences for my Actions'.

You delve into the fibre, digging through the ink and dust until you get to the raw material itself.

Your hands glide over its neat weft, shimmering with the artisan's pride.

"Condolences for my Actions" is the higher quality card.

Its sheer grammage can barely be contained!

Feel 'SS I'm Sorry'.

The boat seems to see you coming, tooting its horn apologetically as you smooth your fingers over its surface.

Rough, uneven -- you can almost see your hand through the un-inked portion.

The cards are exactly the same. You are feeling them with all your might. Identical.

Keep feeling.

Grammage isn't real.

Grammage is real. Just not detectable by any invented means.

GRAMMAGE IS REAL AND BOURGEOIS.

There is no palpable difference between these two cards. None.

"See? The cheap one almost comes across as insulting. You'd have to buy another apology card after giving that to someone!"

There has to be a difference, Constanz says so.

Take "Condolences for my Actions".

You take the card from the shelf.

The Photo Lady's expression is unreadable as you turn from the rack.

"I suppose you'll be taking it upstairs to write your apology? Proper remorse requires a flat surface and a stable hand."

"I'll keep it right there until you can afford it."

Take "Condolences for my Actions", the higher quality card.

Buy "SS I'm Sorry".

You pocket the card.

Buy "SS I'm Sorry", the lower quality card.

"I'll choose later." [Leave.]

"The rack will be here."

The rack holds two apology cards, under siege from a number of colourful birthday greetings and 'get well soon' wishes.