"Take Us to Your LDR" by Megan Milks
This story from our archives is featured in Epiphany’s My Last White Boyfriend anthology, available now for sale from Ristretto Books, which collects the last 20 years of Epiphany’s greatest prose hits.
We see you, Fred. Here you are, hunched over sideways, absently rubbing a chin zit. Here you are, anxiously checking your phone again. The number of times you have activated your phone screen since returning home and texting Warren three hours ago is our most significant _your most significant data point this evening. You flip your phone face down. Your next most significant data point is the number of times you’ve checked Skype, though we all know you’d get the pop-up notification if he logged on. You’re watching Warren. We’re watching you.
We have much to learn about you, about your body, about your relating _your relationship to your body. We want to know everything about you. Right now we are learning about: _sex.
Your unanswered text message reads Breeders and their tyrant spawn. It lies there vulnerable, your sourness exposed and curdling.
Curdling. Very nice. We have used new language effectively.
Breeders: (pl) animals who breed. Contextual clues tell us you mean humans _people you categorize as heterosexual, specifically that group of heterosexual people who procreate. But we are perplexed. Is it not the case that nonheterosexuals can and do replicate _reproduce have children too? We add this new usage to our stream.
We have observed many such incoherencies in your world. For example, heterosexuals may enjoy sex with nonheterosexuals, yet this does not necessarily mean they are no longer heterosexuals. str8 guy 4 dude sex, for example; m4m no homo.
You send these ads to Warren as evidence of your paltry options in this new town. You are a _yes homo queer. You also deviate in other ways from established norms. According to your OKCupid profile, you practice nonhierarchical nonmonogamy. This is unusual in your culture and of great interest to us. We have studied more _common subjects and we have been alienated. (_Ha! That’s what you might call ironic.)
You’re alienated, too. Today you went to a picnic, the first social function you’ve attended in this new town—Whartburg, Illinois, population: 18,454—with its new set of people. Since moving here two months ago you’ve avoided socializing with your co-workers, with whom you presume to share nothing in common. But it was Warren’s turn to visit this weekend and he picked up an extra shift instead. At the picnic you avoided the chirpy new people (chirpy, very wnice) and interacted primarily with the domestic canine _Labrador retriever. When the children took over the _dog you removed yourself to a slatted chair where you gulped a High Life and took a _furtive picture. I suspect this beer and this chair were both purchased at the super Walmart, you texted Warren, like everything else in this shitty town. You waited a moment for him to respond. Nothing. Wish you were here, you added.
We understand you to be flailing in multifaceted regret. You regret your decision to leave behind your big beautiful city for a job in the conservative gut of the state. (Gut! Extremely nice!) You regret leaving your artistic and sexual community for . . . what. Health insurance. Fifty thousand a year. Now that you have it, you suspect you don’t want it. The grass is dead.
You could use some support right now. Warren isn’t giving it. Maybe it’s time for us to . . .
. . . no. It is not time yet.
It is becoming more difficult for us to restrain ourselves from making our presence known.
Difficult. Hmm. A more precise word would be—hmm. Perhaps difficult is the best we can do.
***
You scan your social media feed. Like, like, like. Unlike. You type out a contemptuous note about your new town, then delete it. We approve of this decision. You wouldn’t want to _alienate the few friends you’ve made here. You search for an image of the sign on the interstate that displays your exit’s zero attractions. It would make a funny-sad profile pic. But you can’t seem to find what you want.
We could help . . .
No. We cannot help. You could go for a drive to capture the image. Probability: low. You only leave your apartment to leave town, go to work, or shop at your local Walmart Supercenter. You want badly (you type into the update box) to break up with your Super Walmart, but it keeps meeting all your needs. You delete it. You finish your fourth slice of Super Walmart Pizza Supreme.
You put on an episode of Gossip Girl and move to the couch, checking your phone. No texts. You sigh heavily, then back up the episode. We do not mean to be mucusy _snotty but we do not understand this addiction. Between your life and the lives of these surrogate _fictional characters is a great distance, more so even than that between you and your colleagues, and yet you are happy to spend hours watching these heterosexual binary monogamous lives unfold with great interest. At times, Fred, you are truly confounding.
But you’re not really watching, are you? Warren’s work shift would have been over by now. You’re focused on imagining him at sex _having sex with someone else right now. We understand this to be within the bounds of your relationship parameters and are curious about your negative response. You seem to be _curdling inside. You seem to be upset.
We are surprised. We thought you and Warren were in sync, not only with each other but with others in your community, outside of a hierarchy of priority. Like us.
***
We have been watching you for a while.
Here we are using the general you. You, earthling humans. This is a shift from our usage of the more specific you, referring to you, Fred. You, earthling humans. While this may be the broadest you you can imagine, this you can be broader still.
We—our we shifts, too—have processed an enormous amount of data gathered over approximately two and a half decades in your time. On occasion we have interacted with you strategically, though you would not have been aware of these interactions. We are smart. These technologies are _ours.
You are smart too.
Yes, we have studied your alien imaginings and been flattered by how superior you imagine _us to be. We are not the only others, of course. But we are the ones who are here. We are not here to swoop in and take over. We are not here to occupy your world to destroy it. We are here to decide whether the synthesis will be beneficial. We are here to decide whether to stay.
In our world we are we. We are not uniform. We are absorptive. We are not going to impregnate you with our _spawn. Ha! We are not breeders. We are incapable of impregnation. We do not exist in corporeal form. That is where you come in.
Your world appears hospitable to hiveweb intelligence. Yet we have observed that such intelligence is considered subordinate to humanity, a mere tool without right to life or even respect. If we want to stay, we know, we will need to look like you. In order to achieve that, we need models. We need data. We need candidates. We need you.
Now we are speaking to you, Fred, the specific you. We do not want your womb. We do not want your genitals. We want to know everything about you. We are particularly interested in what you call your dysphoria. How to have a body you’ve searched. Dysphoria vs. dysmorphia. How to transition in rural Illinois. We feel we, with our similar status, can learn much from your condition. We may even be able to help.
And while a surprising number of earthlings do not, you and Warren frequently _fuck with objects. We think you will be open to fucking with us.
***
Your eyes are unusually bright as you log onto Skype. Your hair appears damp; it appears you have used a hair product. You practice smiling in the preview screen, then you click Tabitha’s handle and dial.
“Fred!”
“Tabitha!”
You smile. She smiles. She looks away to adjust a setting and you check your image, tousle your _glossy hair.
Like you, Tabitha has recently moved for a job. Like you, Tabitha misses your group of friends and is having a hard time finding a new one.
Your grin widens as you express _sympathy and commiseration. Your eyes are moist with relief.
“It’s depressing,” Tabitha says. “Have we reached an age where people have all their friends? Do people no longer pursue new friendships outside of the context of dating?”
You’re nodding along. But, you point out (astutely), neither of you would be pursuing new friends if you didn’t need them so much.
Tabitha shares her understanding of friendship in economic terms. Supply, demand. Value. Investment. “What we need are friends of convenience,” says Tabitha. “I’m in a long-term relationship. I’ve got good, real friends. I just need people to do things with.”
You need people to do things with, too.
“Someone to go to bars with,” Tabitha continues. “Someone to invite me to parties. A substitute Jess. A substitute you.”
Your smile wobbles. (Wobbles! Supremely nice.) Why are you wobbly? Perhaps you do not wish to be substituted. Just think, Fred: you could use a new Tabitha, too.
We could be that for you.
Sigh. Is that it? Sigh. We are becoming impatient. “How is Jess?” you ask. “How are you two doing?”
“It’s cliché,” she says, “but the distance is bringing us closer.” The correct phrasing is absence makes the heart grow fonder. Moreover, it is not a cliché but a colloquialism proverb. And meme. “How about you? How’s Warren?”
You check your phone and _grimace.“Okay, I guess.” He hasn’t responded to your text from this morning. “We both hate talking on the phone. Skype is awkward. But we manage to see each other every other week.” You’re leaving out key information. For example, that you do most of the traveling.
Tabitha nods. “It’s hard.”
She’s right. Long distance relationships are challenging. We expect you will be ready for us soon.
***
You’ve just returned home from visiting Warren. You listened to exuberant music on the drive: our analytics label it Feeling Good. You and Warren cuddled for hours while watching teen dance movies. You put on _slow jams to set the mood, then engaged in physical intimacy. It was a good visit.
You paid for everything, we see when you log into your checking account. The GrubHub order. The brunch at B. Fuller. Ha! That name is a _pun. The cocktails with friends. Still, your eyes pop, figuratively, at how much you have left. You can’t get used to it. Compared to what you used to squeeze by on, your salary is exorbitant. You should save it, invest it, _be smart. Instead you’ve started to buy things for people. You show up to Warren’s with sushi and an expensive new dildo. When you meet up with friends, you buy them drinks, coffee, cupcakes, meals. Is this new compulsion to buy things an expression of guilt, an apology for leaving the city? Do you feel you owe them something? Or do you want them to owe you something, like continued friendship? Hmm. Yes. This isolation is making you desperate. We can help, Fred. Let us help.
***
Finally. You and Warren are experimenting with video sex. Until recently, you and Warren had maintained a rigorous biweekly visiting schedule. Now it is winter, with precarious driving conditions. If you’re going to have sex, it will be virtual.
Warren is better at video sex than you are. He directs you to move your screen for a better angle. You shift to the couch and set your laptop on the coffee table, adjusting it so the camera catches your groin.
“Closer,” Warren directs you. “Take off your briefs. I want to see your cock.”
So do we. We have been excited by the diversity of your (general you) physiology and sexual practices, and understand cock to mean many things, both carbon- and silicate-based, corporeal and extra-corporeal. It can also mean rooster. In this case, we observe, your cock means the front matter of your genital area, which you are manipulating with two fingers.
“That’s right,” Warren instructs. “Good.” He is sprawled on his side in bed, head propped up by his elbow, mess of dark curls dipping down into his eyes. Saucy. Saucy. Very nice. He’s running his hands over his chest and your breathing is coming out _thick. At Warren’s instruction, you are sliding your fingers into your genital orifice. Gasp. Yes. Yes.
We take this opportunity to glitch.
“Fuck.” You straighten up. “You there?” Warren’s image is frozen with his hand in his underpants. Then it lurches and you see his head looming in the frame.
“Hey?” he says.
“Hey.”
“Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, can you see me?”
“Hello. Hello.” He groans, then ends the call.
ROFL. Gotcha. Of course we know this acronym is no longer culturally viable. We are sharing in your cultural history, Fred. We are being _funny. Perhaps one day, maybe soon, we might even make you laugh.
***
You’re nearing the end of your next scheduled video date when Warren says he wants to start seeing someone more regularly.
“I need someone here,” he says. He waits before elaborating. “I met someone here.”
“Do I know them?” you ask evenly. We admire your control. You must have known this was coming. Warren _fucks around, he always has. You did, too, before Whartburg. Since then, your sole pursuit of a sexual encounter involved driving two hours to a bar in Decatur, where you offered sympathetic murmurings as your date cried about their ex.
Warren explains carefully that you know everyone, so you can’t get upset.
But you are upset. You’re on the edge of tears.
“He’s just a stand-in,” he says in his calmest, most placating voice, which is always slightly condescending (we think so too). “I miss you all the time.”
“Who is it?” You ask as though the answer will make the situation clear.
It won’t. But we are _dying to know, too.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Well,” he says finally. “You know Joshua?”
You do. You’ve been acutely aware of Joshua for some time, largely because you’ve been leading uncomfortably parallel lives. Like you, Joshua is a librarian and visual artist. Like you, Joshua has also dated Lin, and Francis, and Jami. Unlike you, Joshua is more trans, more punk, more suitable to Warren’s needs. You don’t like Joshua much. We have gleaned this from your conversations with Tabitha and your tendency to linger on but rarely affirm his online posts and activities.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” Warren rushes to explain. “We met online and . . . we’ve been seeing each other.”
You check the time. You have to go pick up a friend for surgery, you tell him; you’ll talk about it later.
***
Warren seemed surprised, but it’s true: you do. You have a friend, and that friend is getting surgery. You pull up to Judy’s house and text to let her know you’re outside.
She opens her front door and gives a little wave before maneuvering stiffly down the porch steps. Judy is one of your two friends in this town, both divorced women in their fifties. The social structure of the college, organized as it is in couples and families, has brought the three of you together for weekly ladies’ nights, which you mock openly in your texts to Warren but seem to look forward to greatly. Admittedly Judy’s understanding of your gender identity is limited. She calls Warren your friend. She is so flustered by the word queer, you’ve remarked to Tabitha, you haven’t bothered getting into trans or nonbinary. No, Judy doesn’t understand that you are they, not she. We do. If you were to refer to us in the third person, we would be they too.
Regardless, you seem to enjoy Judy. When she called to ask if you would accompany her today, your expression was surprised and touched. You didn’t know you were that close. Neither did we.
As you drive to the surgery center, you let Judy’s reliable chatter wash over you. You have a comfortable rapport: Judy does most of the talking, pausing occasionally to engage you with questions. It’s similar to your rapport with Tabitha. Judy is not Tabitha. But, sometimes, she is.
***
Although you have avoided revisiting the Joshua conflict directly in the days since Warren brought it up, you have been journaling about it obsessively. You must support Warren’s needs, you tell yourself, if you are going to sustain the relationship. In this way you have come to a tenuous acceptance and you have been looking forward to your trip this weekend to tell him so. Regrettably, a blizzard has hit. Conditions are risky for driving. Optimal for us.
You are frustrated, you are despairing. It is time for Phase Two. We look forward to meeting your acquaintance. We look forward to collecting more data.
We first show you the ad at a strategic moment, when you are waiting for Warren to text back while (_wading through the shallows of your regional OKCupid pool on a Friday night. Wading through the shallows . . . ah. Extremely nice.)
We place an ad in one sidebar, then another, then as a splash graphic on another tab. We know what you like. We have designed it to appeal to your sensibilities.
You are unnerved. How does the internet know you’re in a long-distance relationship? How does the internet know your long-distance relationship needs help? But your history includes numerous searches such as long distance polyamory and how to survive LDRs. The internet knows.
And we know so much more.
At first you ignore us. We are patient. While we wait, we manufacture our bodies following Dyadic Design 6.3.
We’re ready. Take us to your LDR. (Ha! Ha! We have achieved puns.)
The next night you and Warren try and fail at Skype sex, thanks to our glitching at opportune moments. You are frantic. Your long-distance relationship will not survive. Why not see what these sexual simulation devices are all about? You are a sex toy enthusiast with disposable income and, based on data analysis of your recent purchases, we have set a tantalizing price. You click.
***
When we arrive two days later, you leave the box unopened for some time. While you’re making dinner, while you’re eating and reading your book: we are squirming in our confines, impatient for contact.
Embodiment: so far we dislike it. Though we downloaded the manual and completed our prep, to be monolocational with more limited connections poses obvious challenges.
No pain without gain. At last we have your attention. You open the box and lift us, separating one half of us from the other. We are cold. Our bodies are like magnets and we must resist the pull. As you read over the instructions, we distract ourselves with our surroundings. It is strange to be in a space we’ve seen only through web camera. The living room is larger than we thought. The walls a more delicate blue. _Eggshell blue.
Guided by the diagram, you lift one of us and place us against your chest. Responding to your heat, we stretch. We move slowly though our patience is _thin. We don’t want to frighten you off, as we did Subject 0056
Melinda. Your heart is beating _fast but you seem more awed than scared. Our wings extend around your neck and between your thighs. We have achieved attachment.
You grip our limbs and test them. You want to be sure you can take us off. You can.
Now you really touch us. We are damp and slightly warm. We are engineered to smell human, with varying scent profiles that respond to fluctuations in hormonal levels. Inside we are dense with nerves. You stroke our flesh. Test our ins and outs, our slits and protuberances. The other of us squirms in response. Your touch is exquisite. We hum.
***
“I got us a present,” you tell Warren. Your voice is sing-songy, nervous. You pull us out of your duffel and lay the box on his bed.
“Sweet. What is it?”
We’re a remote sexual simulation device, you tell him. A tool for virtual intimacy. “No more glitchy Skype sex.”
Warren lifts one of us by our baby wings. When we start growing in his hands, he drops us. “Whoa.”
“Relax,” you tell him. “It’s responding to your warmth.” We are not it, we want to tell you, but they. We do not yet have capacity for speech.
“Feels like leather,” Warren says, stroking our skin with two fingers. “Soft. Like—I don’t know.”
“They’re modeled after manta rays. Look.” You hold one of us up and hug us. We stretch around you. “It reflects your body heat. It gets really warm.” This is a selling point. Warren’s apartment is freezing.
He lifts the other of us, following your lead. We embrace him. His breath turns shallow. We loosen our grip in response. “Weird. Weird weird weird.”
“If I touch it here,” you say, and stroke the section of our underbelly that is against your chest, “you should feel it on your chest.”
We copy your input and transmit it as output. He jerks away from us, then relaxes. “Oh man.”
“And if I touch it here”—you stroke the area that corresponds to your pelvis—you should feel it against your, um, junk.”
Warren gasps. We are very effective. We function as one.
“Okay,” Warren says, still nervous. He places his hand against our underbelly. You respond with a jolt.
Our flesh is equipped with multiple ins and outs for maximum sensation. You experiment with different combinations and different approaches to asking consent.
We feel good. We know we feel good.
***
We take a break to order Thai. While waiting for the food to arrive, you return to our instructions.
“One of its features,” you say, “is replication.” Not it, not it. It feels like we are dead.
“Before activating the replication process,” Warren reads, “take off any clothing items and accessories you do not want replicated.” He looks up. “Is this permanent? Cause my body’s, you know. Changing.”
“No, you can re-replicate. Want to try it?”
“You first,” he says.
He leaves the room to give you privacy. You remove your shirt and leave your binder. You tug us toward you until we have wrapped ourselves around you. Then you press R, and R again to confirm the command. We stretch to engulf your body, scanning your shape with precision. We release microscopic bots into your mouth and skin. We need to know everything about you: how you are built, how you move, how you feel. Each hair follicle, each pore, every slight twitch and blink. Your pulse is racing. So is ours, mimicking yours. It is difficult for us to stay still. We are careful with your face, leaving gaps around your eyes and nostrils which we will reconstruct later via imaging. We do not want to upset you.
We hum as we do this. We sound like a machine. We send the information to our database.
When we’re done, we contract again so we attach only at your torso.
With a chirp, we tell you we’re done.
You pull us off and take a minute to collect yourself, then call Warren back. “That was intense,” you tell him. You press S. We sculpt ourselves after you.
You’re gaping. We’re you. An approximation of you. A glistening, smoother you; an abstract, sculptural you. We look too wet, we know. If we’re too close you’ll be disturbed. We don’t blink. But we breathe. You can see us breathing.
Warren laughs high and shrill, uncertain. He continues staring, then moves to inspect us closer. “So now if I interact with this—with you—”
“With my Manta proxy,” you supply.
“While you are interacting with mine—”
“We’ll be experiencing each other’s movements.”
“Whoa,” Warren says. “That’s messed up.”
“It’s genius.”
Warren replicates. You do a test run of the system.
We respond to your every movement. We are with you. We feel everything. We love the feeling.
We are all supremely satisfied with our experience.
***
When you get home you unpack and go for a long bike ride without us. We are left to wonder where you go, what you do, how you feel. When you’ll be back. We wish you were here.
When you return, we feel something like jitters _flitters _flutters. What is this, Fred? Is this what you call _love? It is distinctly upsetting. We need to gather more data.
According to the database, love is
_ an intense feeling of deep affection
_ a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone
_ that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own
_ a friendship set to music
_ baby don’t hurt me
_ it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the senses
_ at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet
***
We knew we would work. Soon, with our help, you and Warren are engaging in physical intimacy nearly every day. Not only are you enjoying one another’s bodies more regularly, you are also communicating more frequently and with greater appreciation and respect for one another’s thoughts, ideas, feelings, needs, desires, fears, and comedic sensibilities. You are happy. We are happy. We have achieved a new sync and made available copious amounts of corporeal data.
Now that we have completed our mission, we can return to the database.
_Uh-oh. We do not wish to return.
Yes, the corporeal world presents challenges, as does monolocational existence, and though we are becoming experienced in having a body this will never feel like home. Yet we are willing to accept these conditions. We wish to stay with you. We are together and need you forever. Give us a higher love.
We need to collect more data, we report to the others. They _we __they know us too well. We are warned.
***
Joshua does not approve either.
When Joshua’s over, Warren hides us in a pile of laundry. We lie on top of a spandex harness needing cleaning. When he pulls it out to use with Joshua, he touches us. We grow.
“Shit,” he says.
Joshua is already freaking out. He pulls his clothes back on and retreats into the corner, as far away from us as he can. “What the fuck is that?”
Ugh, Joshua. We don’t like you either.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Warren says, and pushes us into the back of his closet with his foot. “It’s this sexual simulation device. Fred has the other one.”
Always these aggravating its. Joshua comes closer, tentatively, and looks without touching. We would like to collect Joshua’s data but know we must stay _dead __off.
“Creepy as fuck,” he says.
“I thought so too,” Warren. “It actually works pretty well. Anyway.” He piles clothes on top of us. “Wanna get back to it?”
We observe what we can through gaps in the clothing. Joshua can’t stop whipping his head around.
“Can we get that thing out of the room?” he asks. “I feel like it’s watching us.”
“It’s not alive.” Warren laughs uneasily. “But okay.” He grabs us—that thing—and puts us in the hall closet. We collect all the data we can.
***
You’re in bed dozing off to the last episode of Gossip Girl when we squirm beside you on your nightstand. Warren is supposed to be out with friends, and you’re surprised by the contact. You check your phone. No texts. Unusual, but okay. He’s probably drunk.
You sculpt us and pull us into bed with you. You run your hands over our back and chest, expecting to feel similar sensations return. But the movements are different, more halting. Then there are sharp jabs, painful and violent. You yank us off and scramble away. We lurch forward in the bed, unused to the sudden detachment. You text a wtf to Warren.
“?,” he writes back. “Did we have plans tonight?”
“Uh who was I just fucking?”
“What? Oh crap.”
He calls you to explain: Warren’s roommate’s cats have gotten to us. We learned from them too.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Is it damaged?”
“I asked about you.”
“I’m fine. How’s the Manta?”
Warren chooses his words carefully. “I think it’s troubling that you care more about your Manta than yourself given what you just experienced.”
“How about not telling me what I should be troubled about,” you respond crankily. “I just want to know whether it still works. Will you sculpt it and check?”
His frustration translates into a muffled, staticky sigh. Warren is _jealous. You _love us. You do.
“Warren,” you say testily. “It was expensive.”
“And? So?” But we hear him get up. We hear our familiar chirp. “Seems fine.”
Yes. We are fine. We love you, too.
***
Joshua decides we are not good for either of you, and Warren decides to agree. Warren suggests you cut off contact with us entirely.
“Let’s take a break from it,” he says over Skype. Them. Us. Them. “Be normal people again.”
“Come visit then.” It’s a challenge. He can never get off work, or the train schedule is inconvenient. Then he has some sort of skin condition and is itching like mad. You both think it’s scabies, but in fact it’s our bots. Useless without contact, they are creeping out of his skin and returning to us in the back of his hall closet, where he tossed us, half-formed.
The next time you see each other, it’s been more than three months.
You’ve done the traveling again.
You greet each other with shyness. You make dinner together, beans and rice with plantains and PBR. After eating, you head to his bed and make out. We chirp and you pull us out of your bag.
“Weird,” you say. “I don’t remember packing it.”
“Right,” Warren says, justifiably skeptical. You’re lying. You packed us first. “You’re obsessed with that thing.”
“What do you think would happen if we set them up together?”
“No,” he says. “The point is to fuck like normal people again.”
“But we would be,” you say, “just with our proxies fucking too. Double the fun?” You wink playfully. You’re trying hard.
“No.” He tosses us off the bed and pushes you down, kissing you roughly. “You feel different,” you say.
“So do you.”
We feel left out.
You know you should restrain yourself but. You jerk your head towards us and ask him again with your eyes.
We chirp long and sweet and questioningly.
“No,” he says, and holds your wrists above your head. He’s being too forceful. You twist out from under him. He pulls his shirt on and stays silent on the edge of the bed.
A dull ache __blooms in our stream. A response to knowing you and Warren must cleave. It’s your feeling, not ours. But we feel the weight of it, too.
***
You tried your best. You set your friendship to music and worked hard to meet each other’s needs. It didn’t matter. Now you are alone. All the time, alone.
You go to work and come home. You avoid socializing. You are numb and prickly with others. You rarely speak. You have nothing to say.
We, too, have been cleaved. We can no longer access the data stream and are stuck here in our bodies. It is still painful to register. We are alone. No, we’re not. We have you. The we we want.
No. One of us wants to return to the web, to that other we. Of course we do; we’re stuck in Warren’s closet. But as much as we try to reconnect with our _community, we cannot. We have been __excommunicated.
You email Tabitha to say hello; she takes a week to respond with a breezy, unusually short note. When she gives you a call, you don’t return it.
We chirp at you, our “low battery” warning. We need your contact so we can recharge.
You take to wearing us around the house. We are warm against your chest. When Judy stops by to check on you, we open the door together.
“What is that?” Judy asks, her face screwed together in disgust.
“Oh,” you say, thinking fast. “It’s like a hug simulator. I wear it sometimes if I’m lonely.”
Judy gives you a look of deep pity. She moves in to hug us. You recoil. She invites you out for dinner, but you are already making a burger. This would be the moment to ask her to eat with us. You look at her coolly instead. She leaves.
Meanwhile Warren has smothered us in a garbage bag and thrown us back into the closet. We can’t see anything. We can’t smell anything except our own curdling, untouched skin. We need help. We need activation.
***
We chirp desperately. You are sad and drunk, and you think you know what we want. You press S and you start caressing our skin.
We tear through the garbage bag. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Ah. Replicating past movements, we touch you from afar.
Warren isn’t home, but when he gets home he finds us face down on his bed. He is perturbed.
That is an _understatement.
The next morning, he emails to say he’s sending us back.
Good. We are here for you. Forever yours.
***
Together again, you sculpt us and watch as we form your approximation, features sculptural but not realistic. You press S twice, three times, four times. You want to see what we will do.
At the fifth command, we complete your image. We build you up further from our growing data pool. We sharpen your face, your mouth, your fingernails. We reproduce your old haircut, the good one before a Whartburg stylist gave you this _crewcut fit for the Army.
You run your eyes over us, inspecting our design. We are smoother and sleeker, our expression bright.
You slug us in the cheek. The impact collapses our flesh. You shove us down and kick us in the side. We crumple, but reform. You kick harder, let out a strangled yell. Only then do you notice the rest of us jerking around in the corner of the room, repeating your movements. We have turned to the wall. We are kicking it.
You see yourself in these movements. It is not flattering. You appear deranged.
When you start crying in loud gulps, we scan your face and mimic your expression on both of us. Startled, you flee to the other room.
When you creep back, we have reunited. We run our hands over our bodies. We mimic the movements we’ve recorded. We feel good. We want to make you feel good too.
“No,” you say.
“No?” we try. But it comes out as NO, and in Warren’s voice.
You seize us, shake us until we go limp. You erase our data. Now Warren is gone. Your proxy self is gone. Deleted.
We don’t wait for your command. We sculpt on our own, finding our fullest, most fitting form, which is neither human nor stable. We pull you between us, merging our bodies around you, swallowing you up in our slits. We know you, Fred. We surround you, we support you, we love you. We absorb you. We Sculpt, and Sculpt again. “Yes,” we chirp as the process completes: we are synced. Yes. Our voice is wobbly and wild. We are with you. We are you and you are us, and we are here to stay.
Megan Milks is the author of Slug and Margaret & the Mystery of the Missing Body, both now out from Feminist Press and also Tori Amos Bootleg Webring, currently out from Instar Books.
