What We Chat About When We Chat About Chat

I can admit it. I’m lonely. If it’s not Mom or Dad I’m talking to, it’s the plants, the television, the vacuous air of my half-furnished place. Take yesterday. Gorgeous night! And I had not a single person to share it with. I worked until eight to keep myself busy, but when I left my office, the watercolor sky was setting into itself, a shift from orange to gold to this thin wash of rose. It made me miss Albuquerque: the green chiles, the pinon, the dust. I walked the twenty blocks back to my apartment just trying to smell something familiar, but it was all roasted peanuts and subway steam. Once I got home, there was only a half-living spider plant to sigh at. Before the loneliness could get the best of me, I called mom. She’s always good for a laugh.

So we talked about the weather and what I ate throughout the day and she went on about how the nurses at the clinic use ChatGPT to answer the varying men they speak to on dating apps. She said some of them rely on it to plan weekly crafts with their children. Mom calls it Chat, like a nickname. “Why don’t you talk to Chat to brainstorm ways to meet new people?” She said it nonchalantly, like it was no big deal, then started on about next week’s dose of DMTs.

If I weren’t so isolated, I’d have been insulted. But she was right. Maybe there was something I wasn’t doing that I could do. Maybe I could try a little harder. So when we hung up the phone, I tried it. I had since sworn to myself that I wouldn’t “experiment”, that I wouldn’t waste the water, use up the energy, whatever other impacts I had heard. But that’s what makes us human, right? Error? Mistakes? Risk? What was I doing here? Trying to convince myself to talk to a robot? To not talk to a robot? I poured some wine, opened my laptop, created an account, took another sip, then wrote:

“Hello. I’m a 41 y/o from Albuquerque with a new job in New York City. I am looking for ways to meet new people. Do not tell me to go to a workout class or to join an extracurricular activity. I do not do yoga to socialize. I work a lot.”

The cursor blinked as if it was thinking.

The screen flickered.

Then all at once:

Hi there! Making friends in a new city can be hard. Here are five creative ways to connect with others without joining a workout class:

Host a 'Stranger’s' Dinner Party: Invite a colleague or neighbor and ask them to bring someone you don’t know.

Volunteer: Choose a one-time or short-term opportunity that aligns with your interests—urban gardening, food distribution, museum events.

Start a Micro-Project: Pick something simple and public—a tiny library box in your building, a curated hallway bulletin board, a themed Instagram account about moving to NYC.

Talk to Your Barista Differently: Instead of “Hi,” try asking them what their favorite drink is on the menu, or what they do outside of work.

Offer a Compliment and Wait: See what happens.

And just a note—you’re not alone in this. It’s okay to feel this way. You’re trying. That matters. :)

I clicked out of the website as quickly as I saw the suggestions. I was angry at the results. I wanted this thing to blow me away, but it didn’t. Not even a little bit. Did Chat know there were no baristas in my office building, just touch-screen machines with made-to-order drinks?

I felt even worse than before. Maybe Dad was right. Thinking Dad was right made me feel worse. Dad had been calling once a week – he was lonely, too – and I was answering his calls, because who else was I talking to? Last week he was particularly chatty, sharing all sorts of gossip.

“Your brother tells me they’re training a new model at the hospital that uses longitudinal biometrics to build predictive empathy maps. I laughed and told him good luck using that on anyone with my genes! I’m cold as ice, baby!”

“Come on Dad…”

“I know. I’m not that bad, right? Getting soft in this old age. Even drove your mother to get her infusions the other day. The two of us in the same car! Can you believe it? Ten years ago, I’d have let her suffer!”

“Yeah, I know…”

“Anyway, it’s all algorithms now. Back when I was practicing, I had to trust my fingers… now, computers predict arterial failure before the heart skips a beat…I know, I know, you don’t care. Just listen, you know, listen to your old man for a moment. Trust me when I tell you people want people, not machines.”

“I get it.”

“Really now, you know, Terri’s daughter was telling us the other day how she uses ChatGBT”

“GPT”

“Huh?”

“It’s ChatGPT not GBT.”

“Okay, whatever. Anyway, Hannah uses that thing to talk to Joey! She’ll say, “

'Please form a statement to my husband that is kind but stern and addresses his inability to clean the dishes at night.' And this thing spits back some monotonous drivel, and she’ll read it out loud to Joey! Apparently, Joey laughs and says: 'Tell Chat I’ll get to it later honey!'”

I explained to Dad that he was annoyed because he didn’t like his step-kids, which is true. He was never the doting father, and he took being a stepfather just as lightly. Being hundreds of miles away from one another seemed to help, though. He was becoming a good long-distance dad.

Dad went on and on. “Horse shit!” he said. “A computer to talk to your own husband? Just say the damn words you want to say! Or leave! Hell! If you can’t talk to one another without fighting or getting upset, that’s a sign to leave. Your mom and I could tell them that!”

I didn’t have many feelings about Hannah using a computer to help communicate with Joey. Should I have had feelings? I know that when Dad asked if I had ever used Chat, and I said no, and saying no made me feel proud of myself. Like I was different or something. Should I have felt that? It seemed most people I knew at work were experimenting with Chat in some way. What impressed them? Why? I tossed and turned all night, thinking about trying it again, asking it some other question, thinking about never trying it again, thinking about what I was going to do over the weekend without any friends, about tomorrow’s all day meeting.

The next morning, I wake up and get ready for my meeting, my first C-Suite since starting.

I meet Jack at the elevator. Jack’s been at the company the longest, longer even than our boss and the CFO. Jack’s been a good partner so far, but I can see he’s still on the fence about whether I’ve earned my keep. We ride up to the conference room together.

On the way up, Jack tells me about the table. It’s no ordinary table, Jack says. Apparently, this table wreaked havoc on the company a decade or so ago when employees came in one morning to see the hand-sanded, double lacquered, sandalwood and mahogany smart-table gleaming from the center of the meeting room, the very month senior leadership refused yearly bonuses. Those leaders are long gone. Rumor has it the table can’t be removed.

Sophia is already sitting at the table when we arrive. Our boss walks in a moment or so after us. Now that we’re all here with a comfortable distance between us, Sophia opens the conversation.

“Let me start copying Jack’s work into Chat…” she says.

And just like that my heart beats faster. Here we go again. Chat! With the little nickname. I think back onto Chat’s mediocre performance the night before and force myself to continue to listen.

Sophia double-taps the center of the table but triple taps instead, so the table does not turn on. She tries again, then again, but she is either too quick or too slow, can’t get the rhythm right. We all look at Sophia while she speaks and taps, but Jack’s glare becomes targeted, intense.

“Jack, don’t give me that look. I’ll get this table going. And it’s nice to have this stuff streamlined.”

Before Jack can respond, our boss, noticing her difficulties with tapping, double-taps the table on for Sophia. Their eyes lock. Sophia smiles. Trills of wind chimes fill the air, the smart table’s jingle, letting us know it has turned on. Screens light up in unison, even at the empty chairs. “How remarkably smart," Jack groans at the incessant lights. Our boss clicks and swipes, setting the screen. Without looking at me, he asks for my thoughts.

It’s my first time speaking, and I’m nervous, but I came prepared. I have my notebook and my pen and my highlighter and my laptop and a big pad with the key words I want to remember to say. I begin:

“Well, I hope we can all agree that this focus on cross-departmental ideations preserves our mission.” I needle my thoughts carefully, cautious of my new colleagues. “I say let’s put more pressure on the focus that people want people, not machines….” As soon as I start parroting Dad I realize I’m more nervous than I thought.

Luckily, Sophia interrupts me before I can quote him any further. “Absolutely, Melanie. People do need people! We’ll get some B-Roll from marketing to match those aesthetics. Why don’t we use the embedded data visualization feature to weigh stakeholder alignment?” She clicks on an icon that reads Data Visualization.

Upon touch, data dances across the screen. Pie charts populate. Sophia prompts. The table obeys. Spreadsheets bloom into quadrants. We are, all of us, even Jack, impressed with the few seconds it takes for the onboard processor to render sales metrics. But then the table’s screen blinks, grows blurry, turns black and for a few seconds it looks like we’ve lost all data, but without missing a beat, Sophia advocates for its behavior, cheering, “Oh come on, Chatty! Come on!” and suddenly it’s back up, with more data, more icons, more colors popping here and there.

“This is normal, don’t worry. It is a ten-year old smart table! That’s practically ancient, right?” She laughs, then pets the table gently as if to apologize.

Maybe that’s what irks me. How Mom and Sophia talk about Chat like it’s their friend. Like it’s a person. Do they think we can befriend machines? Am I jealous that they’ve made friends with a machine? I haven’t made a single friend since I’ve moved here. In fact, I don’t think I’ve spoken to someone about something other than work over the past two months, unless I count phone calls with my parents.

Sophia continues working the table, transforming Jack’s plans into megapixels of virtual artifice. I speak up.

“Unpredictability beats at the center of Jack’s plan. Clients are coming to us yearning to differentiate themselves from the rest of the market…”

As I talk, Sophia types some of the words I am saying into the Chat-box. Words like Unpredictable. Difference. Saturation of samehood! Because it is distracting, I pause speaking and ask what she is doing.

“Oh, don’t worry! Real-time feedback capture! Chat’s workshopping some visuals for brand values while we speak.” She is smiling and thriving, happy to peddle prompts and parse possibilities by the dozens.

“Ok, that does sound fantastic, but I’m not sure of what I’m really saying yet…maybe we can pause Chat until we’re all on the same page?”

Jack smiles. Sophia deflates.

“I understand your trepidation, but there’s not a single company I know who is not using it to their advantage…” Sophia says, seriously.

“You know what my mother would say?” Jack asks. “My mother would say, ‘If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, Jack, would you jump off the bridge, too?’”

“Yes, Jack. Yes! Bloukrans Bridge, South Africa, 2002. I jumped off that bridge and so did hundreds of other people! And you know what? I’m glad I did! I don’t think I’ll ever jump off a bridge again, but I did it! Wow! To be young, right? There I was, standing amongst those cliffs, mist rising below me, rambling river rapids…”

“Listen,” I say before a Bloukrans tangent begins, “all I’m asking is that we listen first. Then we can turn to Chat.”

“Fine,” Sophia concedes. “I’m listening. But so is the table. It’s taking notes.”

Our boss nods in approval.

“Sophia, I think you will love the way this sounds, but here I go: Let’s optimize the strategic value of unpredictability.”

“No. I don’t love that. Unpredictability is not easy to sell,” Sophia says.

“That’s why we’re here, to face the unpredictable together,” Jack insists.

We go on talking for a while, the table attentively tracking minutes and words. Somehow two hours pass; it’s half past noon. We break and, as usual, I make my way to the office cafeteria to scope out the room for someone who looks like they wouldn’t mind talking to somebody else. I don’t know what I’m looking for exactly: Someone sitting alone? Someone gazing haphazardly at their phone? Someone looking around aimlessly, like me? I head to the machine to order a boba and as I scan the rook, my eyes meet Sophia’s. She nods for me to join her where she’s sitting. When my drink is ready, I make my way over.

“My gosh this place is huge! Removing the cashiers opened so much space. I haven’t been here in a few months. What did you get?”

“Just some boba” I say and take a sip.

“That was a great meeting. You and Jack are an unbeatable match. Maybe you can even work on him with this AI stuff. I mean, we can’t live in the Stone Age! And honestly, I use Chat for everything.”

It’s the first time I’ve sat with someone at a table and talked in this cafeteria. It feels nice.

“You really do use it? You’re not just saying it for the job?”

“Seriously,” Sophia says, “Chat has helped me so much. It manages meetings, my appointments, plans a weekly diet to manage my muscle pain, writes my thank-you notes. I even used it to write a speech for the Ambassador Awards last week! Standing ovation!” She moves to make a dramatic curtsy with her hands, but her joints are too slow to make the motion humorous. She notices I notice.

“It’s my MS,” she says. “I couldn’t even get the tapping right today.” In the same breath, she continues to gush over Chat.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I lived so calmly before using it. I recommend it to all my friends, especially women!”

“Women?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well,” she says, “I’ve already told you about the MS. So, what the hell. We’re going to be working together a lot in the future, so, yeah, let’s trust each other. Alright, so between you and me, a few months ago, I was pregnant. I was so upset. I mean, I’ve got a lot going on. You know – this job. The MS. Sure, I have a partner, but I do not want to be married. And I absolutely do not want to have a kid. But you know, older age, the constant questioning from family…of course I started to wonder, should I? I mean, I was! I was having one! It was there! A few weeks pass and I’m all torn up, getting indecisive. I couldn’t share it with my friends, you know? I don’t know…they would have been overjoyed for me. And I was not overjoyed. I had no joy. Anyway, I asked Chat. I gave Chat my schedule. I told Chat my partner’s schedule. I said Nova – that’s what I’ve named her – Nova, based on what you know about me and my health and my work schedule, what do you believe is the best next step? You know what she said? Well...wait, just look at it! I took a screenshot…”

Sophia rummages to get her phone out from her bag, finds a brace first, puts it on, then gets the phone out, scrolls for a few moments, and hands it over to me. There’s a screenshot of Chat’s response. I read it:

“I’m here to respond to your concerns thoughtfully and with care. Based on your current commitments, lifestyle, and stated long-term goals, introducing a child into your life at this stage may result in significant misalignment with your values and desired future. Consider alternative ways to nurture, create, or give care that don’t compromise your autonomy.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Can you believe that? What a perfect answer!”

“Wow,” I say, again, because it really is. It’s a good answer.

“Well, needless to say…” she looks towards her stomach, shakes her head, shrugs her shoulders, chuckles.

“Have you heard there’s an app you can download that lets you scroll through your phone without swiping? Some type of oculomotor technology? My mom uses it…”

“Of course…” Sophia chimes. “but while I can, I want to swipe. One day, I’ll download it. One day...”

“Maybe not,” I say and hold up crossed fingers before I take another sip.

“Anyway, I’m heading out now. I’m so glad I got here this morning. So productive. Work on Jack, will you? And when I come back to the office, let me take you out for lunch. A welcome to the big city! Maybe there’s a place you want to try? Oh, I know so many great spots we could go to! I’ll have Kristy – she’s my assistant – I’ll have Kristy send you a list of my favorite places. You pick. Keep your eye out for the email. I’ll see you soon. Maybe next week, maybe the week after. Sometime soon…”

“Thanks, Sophia. I’d love to grab a meal with you,” I say, and I mean it.

As she lifts her body from the chair, Sophia puts a hand on my shoulder. There is a frailty to her, a sense that a heavy breath might whisk her away. Up close, I see her wrists are flimsy and limp-like and blue nerves bulge like bones protruding out from her hands. Spread out and gleaming across the sheen of smart table, I didn’t recognize it, but as she touches my shoulder, Sophia’s tremored and measured movements prove impossible to miss. It’s smart, steadying herself on me under the guise of affection. It’s a strategy I’ve watched Mom master through the years. I put my hand over Sophia’s hand, squeeze tight.

Later on, it’s just Jack and me at the table. Jack is tired, says he’s worked too damn hard this week, says he is heading home to crash. We gather our things and prepare to leave. We turn off the lights, but because neither of us knows how, we do not turn off the table, so it remains on all evening, all weekend, illuminating the dark.

Later, when I’m alone and sprawled across my bed having trouble sleeping again, I wonder if Sophia will really set up a lunch, if Jack really went home to fall asleep, if the smart-table will find a way to turn itself off. I imagine the building resting to the sound of the table’s patient hum. Mmm. Mmm. A quiet insistence. A murmur, a longing. Mmm. Mmmm. A steady cry for somebody, for anybody, to come closer, to touch it, to tell it what to do.

Abriana Jetté is a poet, essayist, and editor whose work appears or is forthcoming in Public Books, Best New Poets, Teachers & Writers Magazine, PLUME, Tampa Review, and Poetry New Zealand, among others. She has been a Tennessee Williams Scholar at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference and has also received support from the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley and the Southampton Writers Conference. A two‑time finalist fellowship recipient from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts (Poetry 2023; Nonfiction 2024), Jetté currently serves as Editor‑in‑Chief of the Journal of Creative Writing Studies.

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