Alix and Qrisa
I
am typing up an email about next week’s schedule. The keys click as I type. I
love the feeling of pushing my fingers rapidly on the plastic. I can feel what
I am writing more than when I trying to “think” the letters on to a page with my
Synapse. I hit send and exhale. Done, nothing menial left to do. I sit and
watch the clock on my visual display hit 8:00 pm. Once again, I am the last one
to leave. Been the only one here for the last 3 hours. I am salaried, so there
is no extra pay for sitting here and finishing all the little things. There is
always a reason to stick around though, and today there is nothing to go home
to. I walk through the empty cubicles and walk down the dark hallway. I push
the elevator button, it glows blue. I straighten my tie and straighten my ring.
I walk in, hit ground level. My wife, Qrisa, is on the other side of the
country right now, the East Coast. Dinner alone is never too bad, and it’s not
like we sleep in the same bed anyway. The doors open, the security guard is
smiling at me.
“Good
evening Mr. Yang.”
“Evening
Jim.”
I
take off the office regulated Synapse from my right ear; the Rizor Tech
corporate user interface fades. For the first time in 12 hours I am seeing the
world with my own eyes. No foreign electrical signals running into my brain to
see the unreal. No constant feed into a network. Just me unplugged, for a short
while. I hand the device over to the guard. He pushes a button and I walk
through the security gate. It is still light out. My car pulls up to the front
of the office driveway. The door slides open and I take a seat on the passenger
side.
I
tell the car, “Take me home.”
I
close my eyes. Being in a moving car always relaxes me. Even my grumbling
stomach cannot disturb this peace. If Qrisa were home, I would have called her
or messaged her that I am on my way. We might eat out, or she might have tried
to cook something since it is Tuesday. I hate cooking when it is not my turn.
My mom and dad said marry a Chinese girl; she will cook for you. Qrisa’s
parents told her to marry a Chinese man; he would take care of you. In each
case, they were half right. We would talk about our day, only half listening to
the other. Six years we’ve been together. I know her more, but I still feel
like I do not know her.
The
car goes up the apartment elevator, right to the back door. The city looks beautiful. The sun is setting
and the hustle of cars moves with precision through the city. I walk into the
house and start taking off my tie, then my button-up shirt, my shoes, socks,
and pants. I toss them in the laundry chute. I guess I do not really want to
eat a whole meal right now, maybe just a snack. I open the fridge and take out
an “apple and cheese” chicken sausage. I heat it up and pour myself a rum and
Coke. She never cares about what I do. The good, the bad, the annoying, it is
not important to her. We married each other to be married. We married each
other so that our parents would live to see their children married off, so they
could be happy. The sausage is done, I plate it. I grab my Synapse from the
counter and put it on. The empty living room lights up as the Synapse loads my
user interface into my mind. I open a window for CNN and start gnawing on the
sausage.
We
met each other in college during a “Tsunami Relief” service trip to Baja. Drink
and substance and problems let people open up about things better left unsaid.
We talked about expectations and family. We talked about solving problems. We
thought we could solve each other’s problems. We were friends. We did not love
each other then. I still do not think she loves me. I was not sure if I loved
her either. Thought I know now that I do. Or that it has happened in the last
month.
Three weeks ago, I watched her paint a
portrait of the Lexi Green who got murdered four months ago. She paints
everyday; usually bright things, sometimes pensive things, abstract things like
time or fear. Though on that day Qrisa had sadness in her. The darkness
surrounding her faded in that moment, she lit up the room with each stroke on
the canvas. I have watched her paint before, but never before did I see her
wear her emotions so honestly. I am never dishonest, but I can’t say I have
ever been that real. Even when I play the violin, the most honest I can get is
the strongest emotion I have at the time. I wish I knew why it dug into her so
deep to pull out this passion. The sadness was a reflection, so clearly her own
resonating with this tragedy in a way that all the other horrible crap that
goes on everyday could not reach her. Though the moment was honest, I have no
inclination as to where it came from. No story she has said to clear it up. No
friend who this might be about. Nothing.
The
girl in the portrait was killed by her father. He lost his job and killed his
wife, his daughter, and himself. Qrisa’s brush dipped into the deep blue, the
paint dripped across the canvas like the tears she never let anyone see. She
took the reds of the flesh furiously stroking, yet precise. When she finished,
it was as if the whole room had come to peace with itself. She got up, t-shirt
stained with paint, in black panties, and sat next to me, and leaned into me
and curled up. I put my arm around her. Sharing that moment, and being needed
like that was more intimate and meaningful than any of the sex we had in the
last six years. I guess the difference is in needing someone to get off on, and
needing someone. We just stayed together in silence for what seemed liked
forever.
Qrisa
and I had a real talk the day after that. We talked about how we were living,
where we were going, why we were still married. I asked her if she was happy.
She said she wasn’t sad. She said she wanted to see a friend in New York; she
would be gone about two weeks. We both know that is code for one of her
lovers. We are not supposed to get
jealous. We are friends with the benefits of marriage. We are not supposed to
be mutually exclusive. We do not own each other. She came up with the terms,
and I agreed. She has never expressed cared about who I sleep with or who I
spend my time with. So I should continue to respect our terms and what she
wants to do. We were not supposed to get upset, since this was a marriage of
convenience. I was upset though. I am upset. I got a glimpse of something
beautiful, and I wanted more. I want it all for myself. I want to talk about
the things I have not talked about. I want to tell her how when I was on hike
when I was nine, I watched Elliot Warwick get his legs crushed by a boulder and
slowly bleed out and die. I want to tell her about how terrifying it was to be
around my grandfather when he was losing his mind. I want to tell her about the
time my mother left me at the mall when I was four. I am pretty sure that was
on purpose.
So
I am sitting here. I open a window to the Streams. The collective flow of minds
across the net ready to be tethered to and explored live. So that in a moment,
for a moment, you could be in someone else’s shoes. In their mind, in their
body, doing what they do, seeing what they see, feeling all of their feelings.
They call it “diving” when you synch up with a Stream. It feels different from
“dipping” into a previously recorded experience, or a Pool. Millions of Streams
are up. Millions more people are synching up to live life vicariously. Kael’s
Stream is up, I have been following his life for the last two months. Even the
most mundane of moments in a Stream are invigorating. There is a comfort in
being out of your head. I dive in.
Kael’s
still streaming, but I leave. It is too easy to lose time. It has been three
hours. I need to clean up. I put my dishes in the wash. I lie down in my bed. I
remember the last time Qrisa and I had sex. We came back from company party. It
had been a real date. We got drunk, we danced, and we played the lovely couple
for the crowed. She was undressing. I put my arms around her from behind. I
kissed the back of her neck. She turned around and put her hands on my bare
chest and looked me in the eye. I was not sure what I saw in those eyes. She
kissed me and probably out of convenience we made love. I made her breakfast,
eggs Florentine. She thanked me. Things were normal again. Any show she had put
up was gone. We were two people living with each other, married on paper.
Possibly friends that got sick of each other.
I
have to know what she is doing. Written words are faster than spoken, and less
intrusive. So I message her.
“I
am missing you right now.”
She
writes back, “Oh really?”
“Stream
for me please.”
“Hmm.”
“Qrisa,
I just want to be with you for a little bit.”
“Okay.
Just for a little bit.”
I
am waiting. I was half expecting her to say something else. To say no. An
invitation to join Qrisa’s private Stream. “Yes”.
Qrisa
I
look out a 43rd floor window of Elizabeth Harvey’s apartment. I
cannot tell the city lights from the stars above. A clear city sky is something
I could not imagine when we were kids. I should not be able to tell you are
with me, but knowing that we are here at the same time makes this different. I
can say I am glad you sent me a message when you did. I smile. There is so much
that has changed, so many miracles humanity has made happen. We have all the
energy. We can clean up our messes. We have even played God. We can go beyond
empathizing with people. However, there are things we still cannot fix. I walk
away from the window. Wrap my robe a little tighter. I walk into a room. There
is a crib, the walls are painted with flowers. In the crib is a baby. Her name
is Marigold. Eliza and Theo’s five month old.
Eliza my college roommate, you remember right? I put my hand lightly on
little Marigold’s forehead. This is life. One of the most complicated, yet so
simple things. I can see her breathing. A tear wets my toe.
I
run my hands across my face. Cough. I sit on the floor, the crib towers over
me. About two months ago I went to see the doctor. He said I could not bear
children. I did not know what I had lost. I did not care. When I read about
Lexi Green, something snapped. She was just a girl. Another of the tragedies we
cannot stop even with all the miracles we have at our disposal. I felt the
weight of regret. I feel stupid. I wish I could just have told you about it.
Not that we had planned to have kids or anything. Just the fact that I
cannot... I am not sure. This is how you get to know. When I feel like I am in
a room alone, and I barely know you are here. I came up here, cause I wanted to
talk to someone. So I called Eliza. I wanted to just run away for a little.
I
get up. I get a drink of water. It helped, but I want to go home now. I have
not told any other people. I will never tell Mom, or Dad. Life is not bad,
maybe I am spoiled. My arms can barely move. I am going to sleep.
The
stream fades. I write, “Sleep well. Waiting for you to come home. Love you.”
It’s
cold. She cannot have children. I wish I could fix that. She is right. For all
the world problems that have been resolved people’s problems have not gone
away. If she wanted, she could still have a child of her blood, but it’d be
born from a tube, cultured in a lab somewhere. An android baby. That was
somewhere in here thoughts, but in a far away place. That was not the point. We
cannot have children. We cannot have
little people who learn and love and turn into real people. It reminds me of
the trip to Baja.
We
were at the Church giving out food. We
watched all the refugees line up, homeless ragged, and hungry. When we
finished, I remember she asked me to buy her cigarettes. I did as she asked and
walked to the corner liquor store and bought her a pack of reds. I remember
putting the cig on her lips and lighting it while I told her to suck through
the filter. She’d never smoked before that. I watched her cough and fail to get
the smoke into her lungs. We sat on the porch of the shack we were all staring
at. I wanted to be a cook back then, but my dad convinced me to go into
computer science. She wanted to be a painter. She ended up doing economics.
Neither of us got to do what we wanted. I did not think we married for love,
but because it was easy and we understood the suffering of expectation.
Sometimes I think when we are around other people life easier. We know how to
act. I used to know myself, but I’ve been less and less me as time has gone on.
I felt empty. Maybe I was jealous when I saw her painting, she might have been
sad, but it was more emotion than I can remember having in a while. Or maybe,
she is bringing back something in me. Or making something new. She needs me.
That feels good. I know her sadness now. Or a little of it. It makes me feel
like I know myself a little more just from this. I want to make her happy.
I
get a message from her, “Night. Love you, too.”
They
are just words, but I want to believe they mean something. We are both lost,
but if we know each other more and more then we can navigate the world a little
better. I do not know what it would be
like to live without her anymore.
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