“You okay?”
On a video panel above and behind the counter, a news anchor was in the middle of a story, “… unexplained disappearances continue throughout the five boroughs, police are now investigating what they describe as a cult…”
I blinked, pulling my attention away from the video to look into Michael’s eyes. He glanced at the news report as well. “Yes, I’m fine,” I replied.
“You sure?”
Nodding yes, I smiled and took the coffees while Michael took the plate of muffins. We wound our way to a quiet spot in the corner, away from the noise and the holographic Santa sleigh weaving its way through the bustling crowd of shoppers. I disliked crowds of people, but then I also hated being alone—my life was a slow bleed on the knife edge between the two.
A simulated fire crackled in our corner, and we sank into armchairs. Pushing the plate toward me, he picked up his muffin. I leaned forward and began crumbling mine into pieces, taking a morsel to eat while grabbing my coffee for a sip.
My chest tightened. What should I say?
“So what do you do for work?” Michael asked.
I smiled with relief. Something I knew. “I’m a lab monkey. I work in research.”
“Oh? What kind?”
“I’m sure you’d find it boring.”
Michael smiled and waved me on, his mouth full of muffin.
“Right now, I’m researching airborne transmission methods of viral gene therapy in conspecific populations, it’s a way…” Wait, what am I doing? There’s no way he could—
“To introduce gametes that take precedence over heterospecific ones?” Michael said around his muffin. He swallowed and sipped his coffee. “Targeted auto-distribution of vaccines, huh? Very interesting, would save billions of dollars.”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “How do you… I mean… ?” My voice trailed off.
“I apologize, I’m just excited to meet a woman of your intelligence. I have many interests, but I am merely an amateur.” Michael smiled and took another bite of his muffin. “Please, continue.”
Taking a deep breath, I sat upright, parting my legs to slide closer toward him. “You’re right, but it’s not about the money.”
“Saving millions of lives, then?”
I crumbled more of my muffin. “I’m more interested in animal life. What’s happening to frogs, to thousands of other species, whether there might be a way to save them.”
Michael moved closer to me. “Amazing. And you have funding?”
I looked at the floor. “For human research, but I’m hoping…”
Again I paused. He’d already finished his muffin. I leaned forward to pull the last of mine apart, sweeping some crumbs into my hand that I dropped onto the floor when Michael looked away.
He looked back at me and slid forward in his chair. “All living creatures share intelligence and emotion, with differences being in degree, not in kind.”
I nodded. “Exactly. I mean, a human baby isn’t any smarter than an octopus, yet people are okay with killing and eating them. But killing a baby, oh, no, that’s not allowed.” I tensed. Was that too much? “I mean like when Jonathan Swift said—”
“That a young healthy child, well nursed, is a most delicious and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled… ?”
I laughed out loud before I could contain myself, earning the stares of people looking to see what was so funny. Nobody I knew would have even understood that reference, never mind being able to come up with the quote.
Michael smiled at our shared secret. “I realize you’re being dramatic to make a point.” He shook his head and his smile disappeared. “Original sin. If anything, we should be atoning for the sins we’ve committed against all the living creatures we’ve murdered to satiate our own appetites. Speciesism is a terrible thing…”
A warm tickling began in my toes, rising up through my groin and into my cheeks. Did he really just say that?
We chatted about our feelings toward food and what food had feelings until Michael had to go. I bid him farewell, then rushed to the ladies’ room. I waited until it was empty, leaned over a pee-spotted toilet, and stuck a finger down my throat.
A few weeks later, the meetings and coffees had become a regular thing; Michael and I even joined the next church session together. He shared some of his war stories, and I shared how I’d lost my brother over there, even opening up about my parents and the recent accident that had stolen them from me. I was busy demolishing another muffin, pecking crumbs from it, when Michael finally asked.
“Do you want to join me for dinner at my place next week?”
“I’d love to,” I answered. I felt a flush. I tried to remember if I’d turned down the heating when I left the house. Had I locked the door?
“Wonderful. I’m having some friends over for a special meal.”
I looked down, knocked a few crumbs into my lap. “Of course.” I’d thought he was inviting me there alone.
“On one condition.” Michael glanced at my muffin. “You must eat absolutely everything that I serve.”
I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or serious. Nodding, I pulled my hands back and burrowed them into the pockets of my coat.
Michael raised one hand like an oath. “Promise.”
Forcing a smile, I pulled out one hand and raised it. “I promise.”
Excusing myself, I headed for the bathroom.
I stopped at the top of the subway stairs, my teeth aching from sucking the cold winter air. My stomach hurt, but not like usual. I wasn’t good with new people. At the lab, this worked in my favor. Just me and my slides and whirring centrifuges. No idle chitchat needed, and most of my colleagues fell into this same spectrum of awkwardness.
A fresh coating of snow squeaked underfoot on the sidewalk outside. At his address, I looked up and saw lights on, people framed in the window, talking, holding drinks. Maybe I should go home, tell him I wasn’t feeling well. I looked at his door. Did I lock my door? Stop it. Even if you didn’t, you can’t go back now. And then his door opened, spilling bubbling conversation onto the street.
“Effie! Come in. Come in!” It was Michael.
Smiling, my internal debate settled for me, I trotted up the stairs.
Michael took my coat and hung it in an entrance closet, then ushered me inside. The entranceway led into a large main room with high ceilings and ornate moldings. He led me to a side table where a cauldron was steaming on a hot plate. Dipping a ladle into it, he filled a small china cup.
“Mulled wine,” Michael explained, offering it to me.
I nodded and accepted the cup from him.
“I thought it would be a nice antidote to the cold,” Michael added. “Glogg you Scandinavians call it, yes?”
I didn’t usually drink much, but I could use one now.
Michael turned to a small man standing next to us. “Ah, Martin, I’d like to introduce you to someone. Effie is a synthetic biologist…”
Blushing, I glanced at the floor and took a sip from my wine.
Michael grimaced. “I meant Dr. Hedegaard is a synthetic biologist, please excuse my familiarity, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t be silly,” I whispered, leaning in and grabbing his arm. “I’m just embarrassed at the attention.”
“Synthetic biologist. Very interesting,” said the small man, smiling and ignoring our exchange. He was short—stooped—with gray stubble atop his head and photoreceptors shining in his empty eye sockets: artificial eyes. He looked familiar. “Do you view your work as a continuation of natural evolution?”