We were so awkward and juvenile in our affections that for a wonderful time, I was simple again. My mind was filled with dumb and pleasant thoughts. I made a mental commitment to enroll in sign-language classes. I couldn’t wait for the day when we could stop relying on technology and Madison to talk to each other. As I moved my hands over her firm stomach, I made the decision to start exercising again. I wanted a body that would drive her crazy. And as she rested on top of me, as she pressed her hips against mine, I realized that despite our limitations, we could screw each other senseless someday. When circumstances were better, when we knew each other better, we’d be so comfortable that we could shut off all the noise in our heads and become two bodies working together in perfect instinct and perfect rhythm. God, how I wanted to make her scream with pleasure. God, what a thing to look forward to.
But for now, we were both in shambles. Once we stopped fooling around, the myriad complexities of our adult existence came back into focus. Dozens of unwelcome details flooded back into our field of vision.
I leaned against the passenger door and held her from behind. I could almost feel her powerful mind start up again, processing multiple streams of thought and worry. She retrieved her laptop from the floor and booted it up in front of us. She channeled her thoughts through SimpleText in eighteen-point Helvetica.
<We are acting out my daughter’s nightmare.>
I reached my arms under hers, tapping the keyboard. <Then we’re going to have to start a slow, careful campaign to sell her on the idea of us.>
<That won’t be an easy project.>
<I’ve had worse.>
She squeezed my hands, then leaned her head back into me. <You’re so much stronger than me.>
<I’m nowhere near as strong as you. I’m just better at pretending.>
<I don’t care,> she typed. <I just want to crawl inside you and never come out.>
I held her tight, planting slow and soft kisses on her neck. I kissed her faster and more intensely until she closed her eyes and moaned. Moving upward, I pressed my lips to the side of her face, cleaning away every last trace of lime. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to swallow her whole, like a snake. Then I’d have her all to myself.
The laptop chimed at midnight. Jean didn’t notice it until I stopped my affections. She glanced at the clock on the menu bar.
<It’s Wednesday,> she wrote.
<Happy Wednesday.>
<Happy Valentine’s Day,> she replied. <You better leave before I fuck you.>
________________
In the future, at least Alonso’s version, there will be two ways to exist: physically and virtually. The physical world will be a giant urban ghetto for the working class, society gone to shit. But the virtual world will be a full-time paradise for all who can afford it. Not only can you customize your appearance, you can customize your senses. If you only wanted to see the world in springtime, you’d only see springtime. If you only wanted to see Baptists, you’d only see the fellow users who were registered as Baptists. Or leftists. Or jazz enthusiasts. There were a million flags you could attach to yourself, and a million types of people you could exclude from your perceptions. God no longer had to grant you the serenity to accept the things you could not change. With the right software, you could change anything.
Such is the premise of Godsend, at least the way Jean described it.
By a quarter to one, she and I were back in our respective homes, back on our respective computers, back on EyeTalk, where it was safe. By then my electricity had returned, but I kept the lights off anyway. I stretched out on the couch and rested the laptop on my chest as if it were Jean herself.
At first we shared some of the wonderful things we hoped to do to each other, someday, when circumstances were better. We romanced each other speculatively, virtually, and in full lowercase. We finished ourselves. Then we curled up together as best we could, spooning on a bed of ones and zeroes.
The narrator of Godsend had no determinate identity, not any that he or she was willing to share with the reader. In the virtual world, s/he was a perpetual metamorph, a disenchanted cipher who changed everything about him/herself on an hourly basis. Name. Shape. Sex. Perceptions.
The trouble begins when s/he meets and falls in love with a fellow shifter. All they have in common are their capricious ways and a taste for pansexual debauchery. According to Jean, the two main characters spend half the book screwing in every form imaginable, even as lobsters. Unfortunately, after each blissful encounter, they spend days obsessively seeking each other out again, trying to reconnect through whatever new disguises they’ve adopted.
<Does it have a happy ending?> I asked.
<Sort of. It turns out the mystery date is Jesus.>
I blinked, stupefied. <The whole time the narrator’s having sex with Jesus?>
<Yeah. It’s like a weird, kinky version of the Footprints parable.>
I laughed. <Wow. That’s so stupid, I’m actually offended.>
<I kind of felt the same way,> she replied. <And yet I couldn’t put it down. To be honest, the whole time I was reading it, I was thinking about you.>
<I’m not Jesus.>
<Neither am I. But the book made me wonder why I was having such a hard time believing in you.>
<It’s not your fault,> I typed, with encoded gloom. <There’s something about me. I give off this oily vibe.>
<No, Scott. I’m just someone who’s been hurt badly.>
I grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and wiped my nose. <I wish I could promise I’ll never hurt you.>
<I wish I could promise I won’t drive you insane someday.>
<So what happens next?>
The cursor blinked steadily for a few silent seconds.
<I’m getting this ring off my finger,> she typed. <Once and for all, I’m going to close the book on Neil. I’ll become financially solvent again. And while doing all that, I’ll wade into you slowly, and in such a way that doesn’t cause me or my daughter great emotional distress. How does that sound?>
<Like a solid plan,> I offered.
<Yeah. You and I are just full of grand designs, aren’t we?>
<Not me,> I declared. <I’m all schemed out.>
<So if you don’t my asking, what happens next with you?>
I didn’t mind her asking. I just didn’t know how to answer. In a few hours, the sun would come up. A few hours after that, either Harmony would confess or she wouldn’t. If she confessed, Miranda would sink me. If she didn’t, the audiotape would be released and would open up a world of shit for me, Harmony, and a whole lot of people.
All told, I was in for another bad day.
The more I thought about it, the more I wished I’d stayed in the car with Jean instead of fleeing at midnight like Cinderella. I should have taken her Hollywood-style, with blazing flames and wild passion. I should have screwed her into a new state of being. Instead I nibbled. I pecked. I brought her into me piece by piece when, goddamn it, I should have begged her to let me out.