Synthetic Affection

Synopsis: Marcel can't seem to feel anything toward other humans. Only the warm embrace of the artificial brings him the comfort most are afforded by a lover. 

Marcel didn’t like the way Mandy grabbed his hands and forced them over her breasts in the dark closet. In the dim light coming in under the door, he could see them protruding from below her tight cotton shirt. He didn’t like them at all. But it didn’t matter what Marcel liked. This wasn’t his birthday party.

Mandy’s kisses were nothing special. They were wet, soft, without much muscle. She’d been practicing, but there was a long way to go. Her thoughts were filled with imaginings of Marcel’s tiny biceps flexed against her body. As she held Marcel’s hands on her breasts, and kissed his lightly mustached lips, she rubbed her hands down his wrists, over his forearms, onto his biceps. They weren’t flexed. There was no sign of tension. His hands moved away from her breasts. Mandy pulled her face away, shook her head, and went in for more kissing. She grabbed Marcel’s hands and pulled them to her butt.

Marcel wasn’t focused on kissing. His mind wandered to thoughts of fishnet shirts. All his black fishnets were at the drycleaner, and under his regular t-shirt tonight was a green fishnet shirt. His least favorite fishnet. If Mandy’s hands drifted too far, she may discover what lied below his Abercrombie shirt. He couldn’t stomach the embarrassment. Not tonight.

A tongue found its way into Marcel’s mouth. In what seemed like no time at all, the same tongue found its way to Marcel’s lips, his cheek, and his ear. It disgusted him. He pulled his hands from Mandy’s butt.

 “Mandy, thank you for this moment,” Marcel whispered. “And happy sixteenth birthday. But I have to go home.” He pushed open the closet door and stepped out into the dimly lit living room where the rest of Mandy’s party guests danced slowly to “Happy Together” by The Turtles.

The fifteen and sixteen year old boys and girls dancing amateurly and immaturely were facing the closet, fixated on the goings on that they imagined happening on the other side of the door.

Mandy stormed out after Marcel. “You can’t go!” she shouted. “I haven’t even opened presents. We haven’t had cake!”

“I can’t eat cake,” Marcel said, turning to face her, dancing subtly to the music. “I’m allergic to frosting.”

The boys in the room envied Marcel. Mandy was a beautiful girl who every boy wanted to kiss in a dark closet. Marcel, being the handsomest boy at school, and by far the handsomest boy at the birthday party, was Mandy’s top choice for kissing partner. But as she stared menacingly at Marcel in the middle of the room, the other boys could tell Marcel wasn’t into her.

“I love you, Marcel,” Mandy blurted out, over the music, through the humming party air of the room. She was forthright and unfiltered, like a starving vagrant at the outdoor patio of a restaurant. Marcel was a frittata and Mandy’s vagrant hunger would not be denied.

The light chatter that fluttered through the room had stopped, all eyes and ears on Marcel and Mandy, as eager boys watched for the opportunity to swoop in like buzzards after a coyote’s fresh kill and departure. The girls in the room eyed Marcel, picturing him without a shirt, unaware of the fishnets that  he wore with pride. They dreamed of the touch of his lips.

“I’m sorry, Mandy. I don’t like girls. Not like that.” Marcel’s words were lightning at a swimming pool. Figuratively, not literally, for were they literally lightning, all the teenage boys and girls at Mandy’s party would be lying dead on the floor, victims of cardiac arrest and severe burns. As figurative lightning, instead, shock and awe spread through the crowd, mouths agape in disbelief. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. He grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair and walked toward the front door.

Three boys rushed from their spots on the dance floor to intercept Marcel at the door, each fixing their hair with their hands as they raced toward him. Throwing on their best smiles, they twinkled bedroom eyes at Marcel and offered to walk him home.

“I didn’t know you were…” one of the boys started.

“One of us!” another interrupted.

“Your eyebrows are sensual, tonight,” said the third.

“Sorry boys,” Marcel said, as he opened the door. “I don’t like boys, either. Not like that.” He stepped out, and the door slammed behind him.

As Marcel walked the two blocks home, a never-sung, never-heard song played in his head, behind his eyes, between his ears, with pulsing beats that matched his steps, and repeated notes that melted steel and mended hearts. Blood raced through his veins, sensations of madness and ideas of fantasy poured from the back of his mind, down his spinal cord, filling his insides as only fleeting, esoteric concepts can, and his stomach bubbled with the confusion all teenage boys face when the enigma of desire supplants reason. The fishnet shirt was beginning to itch. The full moon illuminated the quiet street as he approached his home.

A quick glance at his watch told him his parents were in bed. No shame in coming through the front door. He walked to his room and sat on the bed, removed his shoes and took off his outer shirt. His skin breathed beneath the green fishnet and he smiled.

“Spizzon, activate,” Marcel said.

The sound of whirring electrical charge and mechanical humming came from the closet. A series of clicks and noises of energetic activation reverberated within the enclosed space, and Marcel saw flashing light from below the door. The door slowly opened. Marcel sat still on the bed, eyes staring forward, his hands clasped together in sweaty anticipation.

Mechanical, emotionless footsteps approached him with the rumble of hydraulic compressions and beeping, buzzing, whistling artificial murmurs.

A smile spread across Marcel’s face and he stretched his arms out in welcoming.

Stopping at arm’s length from the bed was a four foot tall robot shaped by unnatural looking curves, resembling a mixture of tank and humanoid, but with only vague similarities to either. Its octagonal face had a barely human quality to its features, and glowed red.

“Welcome home,” said the robot, in a voice devoid of gender, life, or race. But even in its lifeless void of a voice there seemed to be sincerity. The robot’s eyes glowed green with digital ambiance. “How was your night?”

Marcel put his hands on the robot’s oddly shaped body, brushing his fingers over glowing lights, flashing miniature tubes, and warm panels that covered even warmer circuits. “Long,” he answered. “I missed you.”

A metal arm covered in brightly colored plastic extended from the side of the robot, making contact with Marcel’s fishnet covered chest. The arm vibrated and the robot rattled in response. “I sense a great emptiness, Marcel,” said the machine. Its voice almost sounded morose.

“There is great emptiness in being so young,” Marcel said.

The robot stared into Marcel’s watery eyes and saw its own blurred reflection. It was unable to empathize with the emotion it saw Marcel feeling, but it understood the meaning.  “Awaiting commands,” it said.

“Program two, routine six,” Marcel whispered. The robot hummed, then clicked. Marcel felt the circuits heating up below his hands, and pulled the lightly vibrating robot closer to him. “You’re warm, Spizzon,” Marcel said into the robot’s audio receptors. They did not resemble ears as any living thing would know them.

The robot pushed itself into the bed with Marcel, and hummed loudly as its circuits heated and its binary mind calculated every touch and motion and precise decision that was required of it. And then it stopped. The steady vibration ceased and its movements ended. “I am sorry,” said the robot in a voice that was evidently diminishing. “A crash seems to be imminent.”

“What’s happening?” Marcel said, throwing himself upright, pulling the robot closer. “Are you OK?”

“It is OK,” the robot struggled to say. “It has been… a… nice year. Program execution failed. Process is dead.”

“No, no! Exit status!” yelled Marcel.

“Orphaned process, termination unavoidable. I will end...” The red glow in its face slowly faded, but the green of its eyes stayed bright for a minute longer. A small explosion burst from the side of the robot’s body, where its processors resided, blowing a panel across the room. The room fell silent, no longer filled with the light mechanical hum of Spizzon’s presence. Then the green of its eyes disappeared, casting a darkness over the room.

Marcel’s eyes were wet, and he stared at the robot in his bed for a few silent moments before lying back down beside it. He put his arms around it. The phone in his pocket vibrated. He wiped his eyes and pulled it out. On the screen was a message from Mandy. “I just opened your gift.  You got me a toy robot? I don’t play with toys. Especially not robots.” Marcel didn’t respond. The phone vibrated again and a new message appeared. “And I don’t understand the card. “Fill your emptiness with the echoes of love.” What the fuck, Marcel?”

Marcel dropped his phone and lied down. He put his arms around Spizzon, feeling its metal cover as it cooled and returned to room temperature. He closed his eyes until he fell asleep. His phone rested on the ground, vibrating through the night with incoming messages from Mandy. 

The End.