- Mad Science
She’s been naked, all cool, calm, and sexy, for the past hour. I start thinking something nefarious might be going on like, maybe she is using me for my money, before realizing: I don’t have any money. Then I start to wonder if she is an AI prototype, if she escaped from some lab, leaving a puddle of dead scientists behind and now she’s decided to explore the human condition by being with me. It seems more likely than the alternative: that she met me, liked me, and came back to my home where we de-clothed. She looks around. I like to draw people’s rooms, she says, it reveals how they live. She scans me, the room, the chair I sit in, also naked. She takes in data, spits out a smile. How did they get those teeth like that (so straight and white) I wonder.
We lay down to watch a movie. My arm falls under her. She fall asleeps. I look over at my arm and think: Oh no. What if I get an itch on my wrist? What if my arm falls asleep? A cramp? What if the dog has to pee? Or I have to pee? What if there is a fire in the building…my apartment…my kitchen? Did I leave the stove on? What if my phone rings? What if it is something important? Someone important? The president, maybe. What if I’m the chosen one? What if, after a lifetime of waiting, I’m finally called upon to save the world from aliens, dark wizards, robots, from villainy and certain destruction and (what if) without me, we’re all doomed? How am I going to manage all of this with just one arm?
We loved each other as one bulimic cannibal might love another. We swallowed bits of each other. Then, when we were alone, vomited those bits into poetic verses to send: I love you with a red-hot madness and you fell heavy on my chest to whisper me the world. We poured cacophonies of cliches down each other’s throats like love flavored-ipecac taking sick pleasure in the oozing proof of commitment we shared as we showered together in enough young-love-isms to drown a class of teenagers in one biblical flood of angst filled throbbing until (as with all things) entropy set in motion the cataclysmic dismantling of our little tower of babel to send us floating away on separate strips of timber, tired and grateful for a bit of sun.