The Core smells the same

A thousand days, a thousand different “Annas.” Today, sauntering through the café doors, it was neonorange pixie tufts, purled up like the headdress of a bird-of-prey just-landed. Yesterday, long electric blue waves. Before that, a colorwind of eggplant, lime, fireengine, tulippink, shockwhite, starfruityellow… she never ran out of hues. (Each time, the first few seconds of that fresh jolly rancher vibrancy jiggled my wornest of memories: us trading the sticky candies in a corner of recess pavement at the fetal age of twelve, and our first kiss, corn-syrupy and thrilling.) Naturally, she altered face and body too. Today it was tomboy-square jaw, thick upper lip, Japanese eyes. Today it was broad-shouldered, short-statured, thin torso bereft of curves. Sartorially – black track jacket. PVC pants like second skin. Combat boots crawling with red laces.

No matter. The Core always smelled the same.

I waved to her over the chrome of the espresso machine. My appearance was just as unrelated to yesterday’s. Everyone’s was. When total overhaul involved no more than a few taps on a panel, why wouldn’t you play? Similarly, who would choose to be ugly short scrawny fat? Unnatural human beauty populated the earth. Every guy was cut, every woman hourglass. It was mind-numbing. Anna was the exception. I was the exception. Usually I chose some kind of hideous, searching out mirrors day-long to prevent myself from falling asleep walking.

Anna. Before she even got to the counter, I could smell her Core: coconut and saddle-leather. The Core was silicon and solder, muscle gristle blood. An identity to which I was utterly bound, and with which I was utterly bored. We were soulmates in a present where even religious fanatics no longer gave credence to the notion of a soul. I loved her with the energy of vast electrical and magnetic fields… with the gravitational forces of stars pulling their planets… Still, I couldn’t see how we’d make it through the next hundred years together – much less the next millennium. At the very least there’d be some eye-gouging and expensive psychotherapy.

~ by kingzoko on June 28, 2015.

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