Cold Hard Love

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I remember the day we first crossed paths, in passing at first. She was with another man, but their chemistry was clearly lacking. She stared after me affectionately as I passed the Tech2Go to head to the food court on the opposite side of the mall. She was still there when I strolled back around, resting against the entrance of the electronics store.

She smiled and said, “Hi, I’m Cara,” in a breezy voice that hit my ear cooly, and with calculated brevity. A smile and a squint of her bright blue eyes shone back from her dark skin when I told her my name. She simply repeated it back, but I knew then she had to be mine. And I think she felt the same.

Our first date was at an arcade — she was unnaturally good at all the games. Seemingly able to predict when the next wave of aliens would come, or the exact angle to throw the Skeeball, and even stepping to Dance, Dance, Revolution with ease on its highest difficult. It was beautiful. Her black hair bouncing side to side, in stride with the flaunt of her hips. When I asked her how she was so good, she just shrugged her shoulders, murmured something about being wired that way and kept demolishing me.

Insignificant physically, not that it mattered to me — she was clearly the one that settled. Small breasts, ass too if we’re being honest, but that’s not what really intrigued me. She was a master listener, comforting me at the perfect time, responding the exact way she knew I needed. The way her eyes looked deep into mine, a soft hand rubbing my back as sobbed over one thing or another. In fact, most of our time together was spent was spent with me gabbing about one thing or another — she was happy to listen, and that’s all I could ask for.

It was the strangest thing, for as happy as I was, no one else seemed to appreciate her as I much as I did. My friends silently contested — leering at her, a friendly jostle here and there, short-sighted teases abundant. The guys looked on with morbid curiosity, perhaps at the juxtaposition of our skin, though forgivable, was indeed staunch, not that it mattered. Their reactions were more reserved, comparatively.

My female friends looked on with disgust, as if their constant rejection and banter was without consequence. I wasn’t sure if it was jealousy or bitterness, though it pleased me all the same to see them fuming as I supplanted her into our group gatherings. Cara’s presence was an affront to their existence, their prim and proper hardly fettered the attention of Cara’s effortless elegance. They looked her up and down, and still, in the spirit of insecurity, turned their noses, deemed her less than them. Her sharp features, her dark, almost waxy skin, and curly crowning hair, terrified them.

Strangers had their opinions too.

“Fucking disgusting, just unnatural,” some would whisper under their breath as they passed. I’d lost count of how many bibles were shoved into my hands. Protective parents covered their children’s eyes, as if love were something to be ashamed of. Perhaps it is. I tried to remain unbothered, but at times, it got under my skin more than I could tell from any reaction she feigned. She mostly looked on quietly, a bit dumbfounded, holding my upper arm closely.

“She’s not allowed in here, sir,” I was surprised to hear on one of our fancier dates, dressed in our Sunday best — her donning an elegant, yet simple, deep cut black dress, and myself, a black sports coat.

“Surely, we aren’t out of dress code?” I pried.

“No, sir. Her…kind,” the waiter said reluctantly, “are not allowed here.” In the 21st century, I never imagined I would hear those words. Most of that night is a blur, but certainly involved raised voices and at least one physical altercation. But at the end of the night, holding an ice pack to my head and stroking my hair, Cara, as if unafflicted with the hatred of the world, spoke, sang, softly, beautifully, until all was calm again.

My parents never approved either, a hesitancy so clear in their furrowed brows and silent arguing of eyes, darting between each other and her as if my own were incapable of picking up their disapproval. I wasn’t devastated. For their own relationship was far from enviable, their love long since expired, and lust fulfilled by incognito persuasion. It’s a fate we pretend that I’m naive about, yet one I’m so adamant to avoid.

“It’s… she’s just so… different,” they’d plead when she wasn’t within earshot.

“And?” I would contest. They stuttered and murmured — there was always more, another reason our love wasn’t meant to be, according to them. I eventually stopped bringing her around. I knew they would never accept her, no matter how real it became.

This was the fate for a lot of my relationships beyond Cara. I stopped hanging out with friends, I skipped work half the time, we stopped going out. And all the while, we found new ways to be harassed. Strongly worded letters with lewd, gory drawings attached, internet spam, and uplink tampering all made the rounds.

One evening a small mob, complete with pitchforks and torches stood menacingly on the lawn, waiting for us to come out, renounce our love, but it never worked. Slowly, these refutations, these rebuttals took their toll on the both of us. Cara became detached to the world around us, often refusing to interact with anyone or anything without asking my opinion first. I understood her apprehension, she was unaccepted, refused, in a world she was born into, crafted by. That in itself felt unforgivable, and a deep fire burned in my chest, for one day I, or we, would be alleviated from that pain.

It came sooner than I thought. On a walk in the neighborhood. My skin was sickly pale and I figured some sun would be good for us as the preprepared food, supplements, and ice cream we had delivered were beginning to malnourish us. But it was a particularly nasty day. Protests were going on downtown, hateful fucks parading down Broadway. We were in too deep before I realized what was going on. We tried to keep our heads down and walk quickly, but someone shoved the both of us from behind. She scrambled to her feet and took off running.

I don’t think she could take it anymore, she stepped, tripped maybe, out in front of a barreling bus. It was ugly — her thick blue blood, or fluid, whatever, splattered onto the pavement and onto my chest as I crawled on my hands and knees to her broken, crushed circuitry and called her name. Once a fine machine, minced to dust by hell on wheels.

But Ana, her replacement, the next version, is even better. An innate warmth, more expressive, and customizable upon purchase — I was due for an upgrade anyway.