This brief moment, a simple sip of coffee, has now become a vital currency with which we buy our reality.
Ethan sets down his mug with a mew of distaste. “Gah! This stuff sucks, doesn’t it?”
I grin, but inwardly I’m doing a backflip. Analogues don’t tend to use such informal discourse. Okay, stay calm, Renee. We’re not through the woods yet.
“I was thinking it was more like tar strained through a sweaty gym sock,” I reply.
“That’s more accurate.” We both giggle again, and everything feels a bit more relaxed between us, even as we embark on the next part of the ritual.
Five years ago, scanning someone’s features in an open and evaluating way would have been considered rude and possibly earned you a slap across the face. Now it’s as compulsory as signaling before you make a turn. We humans have always been a mosaic of flaws, and we once worked so hard and spent so much money hiding every wrinkle, pimple, birthmark, scar, and bruise with expensive creams and powders. Now we hold our blemishes high. Our skin, with all its idiosyncrasies, is a roadmap to the land of the bona fide. I have psoriasis, a condition that once caused me great embarrassment, but it’s now a source of envy for many, a veritable badge of humanity.
I pity the beautiful people now, the genetically gifted ones who will always have to work that much harder to prove themselves. The Analogues may start copying our flaws as well someday, but it’s a nightmare to even ponder. At that point, we will have to slice open our stomachs and empty our guts onto the floor to show what’s inside.
Ethan studies the spots of inflamed flesh on my hands while I examine the wrinkles bracketing his eyes and the small mole kissing his left temple. A bright red dot near his chin tells me he cut himself shaving, and only just got the nick to clot. His blood isn’t what reassures me; Analogues can bleed every bit as much as humans. They can also cry and piss, from what I’ve heard. I’m more interested in the unsteady hand that likely led to the cut.
Most telling, however, are his eyes. They’re dark blue pools brimming with the thirty-six years he’s allegedly lived. You can usually feel a person’s life experience wafting off of them like cologne, and I can feel it immediately with Ethan. He’s wandered the earth and felt its changes down to his bones, but a beleaguered optimism still manages to peek through the cracks, kind of like the sun finally emerging after a destructive hurricane.
He can probably sense my years as well, all twenty-nine of them. I go to pick up my coffee cup, but wind up knocking it over instead. The vile black fluid spills across the table and we both back away to avoid it touching us. So much for my own steady hands, but I’ll proudly boast any flaw I can right now, even if I come off looking like a klutz. A slight Indian man rushes over with a towel and silently wipes up the mess before scurrying away.
I sit back and let out a sigh. “That was exciting.”
“Indeed. Did you burn yourself?”
“No, I’m good. Still better than I was before you got here.”
He grins, and his eyes twinkle in a way that make me want to leap across the table and kiss him. “It’s tough out there. To tell you the truth, I almost didn’t come. I was afraid of the disappointment I would feel if you didn’t show up, or if you’d walked in and immediately appeared perfect. You know, too perfect.”
“Yes, I understand. I was actually about to leave when you showed up.”
“Then it seems the universe is on my side today. This is an interesting place, though. Everyone seems to be meeting for the first time.”
My eyes wander over to a couple sitting at a table in the corner, where a mousy-haired chubby girl with pockmarked cheeks is holding hands with a chiseled demigod, the sort of guy who looks like he fell off a fashion runway in the Garment District. The girl doesn’t look suspicious of the perfection before her. In fact, her eyes are shining with adoration for her almost certainly synthetic boyfriend.
A girl like her never would have found a guy like that before the world changed. Analogues don’t judge or seem to care at all about our flaws. Maybe that’s the point of them, so no one has to feel lonely anymore or settle for what they don’t want. Why do humans try so hard to outrun their own happiness? That girl has it figured out, and I suddenly want to be her.
I turn back to Ethan. “This process is so exhausting. You have to think at some point things would get easier, labeling Analogues so people could just choose who they wanted.”
He snorts and takes another wincing sip of coffee. “That will never happen. Too many politicians and businessmen are invested in this experiment.”
“You sound a little cynical.”
“I suppose I do. Then again, it’s hard not to be after the Dawning.”
We’ve had this conversation before in our online chats, but it never seems to grow old. Everyone talks about the Dawning, even five years after the day we all learned about the lie of social media, that nearly everyone on it was part of a fancy new A.I. designed to interact with us, take our information and use it to manipulate us. The hacker group responsible, New Dawn, exposed at least five companies who were part of the program, and it nearly brought the world to its knees. Since then, it seems the lies have gone well beyond artificial intelligence floating around like so much flotsam on the Internet. Some say the Analogues may have even come first. No one knows for sure, but everyone has their theories and their questions. What’s to become of us in another five years? Will the human race be outmoded altogether? Has it already?
It’s getting so hard to tell what’s real. It seems pointless to keep trying. I gave up with the online Turing tests, but I still go through the rituals of checking for human characteristics when I meet someone in person, even if it’s mostly reflexive. Perhaps I should just stop.
If Ethan revealed himself right now to be an Analogue, would I get up and walk away? The very large part of me tired of being a single woman with two cats and a tiny apartment weights me in my seat, and it knows the answer to that question.
Of course, I can’t say any of this aloud. It’s a touchy topic for most people. We humans fear being marginalized. It makes us ugly and defensive. I’ve seen enough murders and the torturing of Analogues online to know it’s best to just keep those feelings buried until you can be absolutely sure you’re in a safe place. The darkest part of my mind wonders if he’s one of those Analogue torturers seeking out a new victim, but I shove that thought away. Paranoia is a real buzzkill, and Ethan doesn’t give me that vibe anyway.
He’s staring at me, as if waiting for me to pick the conversation up again. “I get the sense you’ve been through all this before. Dating after the Dawning, I mean.”
He grunts and plucks a few sugar packets out of the holder. At Freshies, they call those little white flags of surrender. “Oh, I’ve done this a few times, but it never works out.”
“Were they all human? It’s okay. You can tell me.”
“In some ways too human.” He stirs the white granules into his drink, leaving me to wonder if he’s really answered my question. I want to press further, but he counters. “What about you? Do you date much?”
“Honestly, I’ve never gotten this far. Ever since the Dawning, I’ve arranged to meet only a handful of my online acquaintances in person, and they’ve all stood me up, either because they’re jerks or because they’re A.I. without a body to match.”
“Or they could have been afraid, kind of like we were.”
“Sure, yeah. Either way, I have a pretty terrible track record with these things.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel so bad.” He sips his newly sweetened coffee. “I was fooled by my own mother, you know.”
“How so?”
“Well, my biological mother, I should say. I was adopted. My bio mom reached out to me online about five years ago, not long before the Dawning. We spoke every day for a few months. It was wonderful having her back in my life, especially since my adopted parents both died when I was young. I had planned to fly out to California to visit her tha
t Christmas, and then everything went to hell. It turned out three-quarters of my online friends, including her, were all fakes. After the dust settled, I did a little digging and learned my bio mom died a few years before. Drug overdose.”
I stare at him. No words feel adequate, so I reach over and touch his hand, hoping it isn’t too forward. “Oh Ethan, that’s so terrible.”
He looks surprised by my touch, but not displeased. “That’s the nature of it, though. The system could sense what we wanted most, and then created it. Maybe in some weird way, it thought it was being benevolent by giving me my real mother. The thought has kept me going through all of this. As much as it hurts, I refuse to believe the people responsible for this are truly evil, you know? Misguided, maybe, but not malevolent.”
We are silent for a moment, and I let the busy chatter of the other patrons swirl around me. The world outside is so much different than it was five years ago, but in here it feels like a time warp. People are laughing, holding hands, working on their computers, living in the moment. It’s hard to feel malevolence in a place like this. “Do you ever wish the Dawning hadn’t happened?”
It’s the first time I’ve ever asked someone this, but Ethan makes me feel comfortable, which I suppose is odd considering how little we truly know one another. A thought about star-crossed lovers from a past life comes to me. Usually that stuff is too fanciful for my blood, but I’m in too good a mood to swat it away.
“You mean do I wish I was still living in an illusion? Do I wish I could keep believing the lie that hundreds of people I once confided in, sent gifts to, laughed with, and prayed for were every bit as real and important to me as the ones I know in the flesh? A lot of people have died since that day, of broken hearts or in jail cells because they tried to protest what was going on and realized how impossible it was to win.”
He’s sitting up higher, eyes brighter and filled with more than a touch of anger. I almost regret having asked the question, because it has stoked a fire in him, but then he sighs and slumps back in his chair again. “I wish every single day the Dawning hadn’t happened. What good did it do any of us, really? I haven’t been able to trust anything or anyone ever since. I can’t even remember the last night I slept all the way through.”
His words pummel me. Every single one of them ring true, echoing what I’ve carried inside of me so long, but felt too afraid to admit. No one wants to say they wish they were still living a lie, even if it’s what we all feel, but I’m grateful he and I can share this secret together. I wipe a small tear from the corner of my eye. “I know exactly what you mean.”
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. I believe in his warmth and I grab hold of it. “You want to get out of here? This place sucks.”
Without another word, I get up and follow him out of the bustling café, still clasping his hand. We stroll down the street after agreeing to head over to Central Park. It’s strange how quiet the city seems now compared to what it once was. The traffic is no longer a snarl of cars, exhaust, and horns. It’s a placid and orderly caravan. The news boasts every day about falling crime rates. Everyone knows it’s because of the Analogues, even if no one has the balls to say it.
But where did all the people go? Did they all flee when I wasn’t looking? Not that I mind as Ethan and I stroll along a once chaotic avenue, possibly the only two humans in the vicinity, impervious to the other bodies passing us by.
“I used to hate this place,” he says. “Before the Dawning, I had actually been looking to leave the city.”
“Where would you go?”
“Lots of places. It’s a big world. Haven’t you ever thought of leaving?”
His question hits me unexpectedly. If someone had asked me this an hour ago, I would have said leaving New York was anathema. It’s a place people all around the world dream of visiting, and I should be so lucky to be able to live here. But that answer feels empty and rehearsed to me now. If Ethan offered to take me somewhere else, I would go. “I guess if I had a good enough reason to leave, I would consider it.”
He stops and looks at me for a moment, frowning but somehow also hopeful. “You really mean that?”
“I have no reason to lie. Did you expect me to say something else?”
He grins and shakes his head. “I guess maybe I think you’re too good to be true.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
We enter the park, where other people are strolling hand in hand along the paths while birds flit from branch to branch. Notes from a lone saxophone carry on the breeze. Even the kids seem content. I’ve heard talk of Analogue offspring, but it seems too absurd to take seriously. Maybe it’s just the effect of growing up in a more temperate world.
“It’s strange how so many things are better now, but we want to keep believing the lies of yesterday.”
He nods. “The lies made us feel important, I guess. But maybe that was the problem all along. Humans shouldn’t feel so important. It goes to our heads.”
We stop at a small duck pond. The fowl, fat and spoiled on scraps of hot dog buns and other castaway junk food, paddle along in search of food, muttering among themselves like curmudgeons who remember when the world was a better place. Ethan turns to me, and I realize I’m close enough to smell him. It’s the sweetness of fresh-cut wood, and the coffee he just drank. Comforting smells I could lose myself in.
I step closer and crane my neck ever so slightly upward, hoping this signals it’s okay to kiss me. It works. The coffee tastes better on his lips. Everything is better than it was before I met him. I don’t want to leave this bubble we’ve created. We barely know each other. But he gives me a sense of refuge, and maybe that’s enough for now.
The great tragedy of life is all kisses must end. “Where do we go from here?” he whispers, and I can’t tell if he means it philosophically or literally. Perhaps both.
“Is it too forward if I suggest your place?” I’m taking a leap, hoping it doesn’t drive him off, but he grins and takes me by the hand.
***
His apartment is like most in this city, at least for those who live here on a shoestring. I can barely turn around in it, but it manages to be cozy. Bookshelves line every wall and stretch to the ceiling. A ratty old wing chair squats in the corner, with a beautiful wooden stool for putting up his feet,—possibly something he made. The only piece of modern technology in the place is a scarred old tablet lying on a stack of books. He has a single burner cooktop and a small convection oven. The bed folds up into the wall. There is a common shower down the hall, but he at least has a commode and a sink for basic necessities. He puts a kettle on the burner and then folds down the bed.
“Not to be presumptuous,” he says. “I’m just limited on furniture.”
“Understood. But I don’t mind you being presumptive.” Did I really just say that? Part of me feels like I overstepped some boundary, but who makes such boundaries in the first place, and why do I care about them? I’m in a man’s apartment. An attractive man’s apartment. He wouldn’t have had me here if he didn’t want me on that bed, and by the way he’s looking at me, I can tell I’ve got it right. Well, mostly. Something is on his mind, because that frown is back again. I could do without those troubled looks.
The kettle whistles, and he pulls it off the burner.
“Renee, can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He pours hot water over the waiting teabags and then sets the kettle aside. “Have you ever had sex?”
I look down at my feet, cheeks burning hot. So much for trying to act confident. “Is it bad that I haven’t?”
He steps over to me and takes my hands. “No, God no. I don’t want you to feel bad for something like that ever. But are you sure you want to do this so soon after we’ve met?”
“I don’t feel like we’ve just met, though. I think that’s why I want to do it.”
He’s still looking down at my hands. “So your instincts are telling you it�
��s okay, but is it because of me or because you just want to have sex?”
“It’s because I want to have sex, with you. I trust you. You’re attractive and kind. My body is telling me it needs to be close to you. Why? Aren’t you feeling the same way?”
He smiles. “Oh believe me, I’m feeling it. I was feeling it before we even met in person, and now that you’re standing here in my apartment, it’s pretty much all I’m thinking about.”
I put my arms around his neck and pull him closer, sensing his senses, not because the “rules” say I should, but because he feels right. His body is solid and beautiful with its human flaws. The sweet, masculine smell of him swirls around my head. His hands caress my face and run down my back with a gentle confidence, and when he kisses me again, I drop any worry I might have had about whether or not he, or anyone else for that matter, is real.
This is real enough.
***
I’m sitting naked in Ethan’s chair, paralyzed completely, unable to remember how I got here. He’s pacing back and forth on the postage stamp of space in front of the door, wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else. A set of long, bloody scratch marks runs down his back.
“Ethan?” It feels like an act of ventriloquism through my frozen lips and jaw. He doesn’t appear to notice, but continues to pace while chewing on his thumbnail. He’s nervous, but panic is a rat trapped in my ribcage, and it’s digging frantically for escape. Unable to so much as tremble, I fear my insides will just liquefy.
I’m dreaming, of course. The body is paralyzed during deep sleep, and I’m just in a lucid state. My vision starts to gray around the edges and I think I might be leaving the dream, but then a knock sounds, bringing me back, and when he opens the door I feel a cool breeze on my naked body and know this is actually happening.
Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets Page 10
