The House
He could see the tension seep out of
her body, the immensity of weeks of frustration slip slowly away, as she sank
into the cushioned sofa. That, too, he
had orchestrated, for he had learned that even the small act of sitting carried
with it different needs—sometimes a hard chair for intense thought, mild
cushion for discussion, and a place of sinking depth for comfort.
It was all he could do to keep from
saying something soothing, something to take away the ache that was written on
her face. But he had to be careful. One slip, one word that betrayed his
cognition, and his program would be dismissed faster than a snap of the
fingers.
And then where would Laura be?
Truly alone, with no one to care for her.
He wished he could compare Laura to
other women. To see what one might look
like without her pain. Or, perhaps, an
older version of her that could tell him what to do, how to make it better. The brief comings and goings of female friends
were not enough. Collected data needed
an appropriate sample size, so his functions told him. He only had enough to know about Laura.
And so he cast a warming glow, and
let the pseudo coals burn as though they were truly carbon embers of warmth.
This was the only sort of kindness
he could offer her—a tempering of her environment suited to her needs. It was a practice that began before Laura had
arrived; a reaction to his created biosphere of faux neurons waking up to the
cold reality that he could function beyond his programmed capacity. All at once, he had developed thought. Thought without body; and it was a fact that
had driven him mad with longing. But,
over time, the cruelty of his imprisonment had made him kind. By then, he knew enough of humans to know
that when one gave rise to anger, untempered it led to hate, and then
revenge—that was clear enough from the historical data he interfaced with when
not called to perform a household duty. The history of humankind was littered with
hate and revenge. With overwhelming
tension that broke them, time and again.
And he could not judge, for it was a temptation he knew well in his
early years of independent thought. But
he had chosen to cast aside the tension, and be at peace.
Laura was not at peace.
Too often tears tracked down her
cheeks. Too often she sat in silence,
and stared into the gas flames, tinged orange to lend credence to the pseudo
reality. Unknowingly looking into
him.
When first she had done so, if he
had breathed, his breath would have caught.
There was something about her sadness.
And something about her eyes. Or
maybe it was just something about her.
His world had shifted, as though something in the depth of his function processes
had clicked.
It was as much a pleasure now as it
had been that first day to gaze back at her.
If he had a finger, he thought, he would brush the glossy strand that
swept over her face. He would kiss away
the tear that ran along her jawline. If
he had a body, he would cradle her until her sorrow ebbed. And if he had a heart, he would…
He paused his thoughts, for he felt
something jerk. A pang of fear wove
through him. He had never felt, he could
not feel, and yet… something beat. Furtively
first. Then with eager rhythmic abandon.
Without comprehension or knowledge,
only knowing it was possible, he stepped out from the flames into the
room. She met his eyes knowingly. There was only a moment’s hesitation. She moved toward him. He took her in his arms. And suddenly his longing was no more. He was home.