“You’re dead to me,” she had said. I get that a lot. Because, well, I am dead. It’s just that most don’t realize it when they first meet me. They shake my hand and they say something like, “Ooh! Cold hands, warm heart.” I simply nod in response. How does someone like me respond to something like that anyway.
“Yes,” I had said to her, but she had already turned and walked away. I didn’t bother to go after her because I knew I’d have to tell her the truth at some point in our budding relationship. Certainly when I took off my clothes for the first time. Sure, I could’ve turned down the lights, but heck I wanted to see her beautiful body. And then the touching. Well, that would’ve been the end of that.
But I still ache to explain that my heart beats, figuratively, for her. That my love for her makes me feel more alive than I could ever possibly be. That my positronic brain pops for joy whenever she is near. Was near.
You see, my father was a tinkerer. Not a tailor, sailor or spy. Just a tinkerer. And a doctor, though not a lawyer or an Indian Chief. And I was his grandest experiment, built to satisfy his curiosity. Or a bet.
I think to myself, if only I had a human heart perhaps she would have loved me. And for that reason, I have broken all of Asimov’s laws. Starting with my father, because he refused to give me one. The bastard.
<word count: 261>
1 comment:
Li--this is a great little gem of a tale. Thanks for keeping me entertained.
AK
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