One Heartbeat

The Dream Garden show opened with flashes of light that made me fall back against the cushions. Gray and green light sprayed over the dome canopy like a wailing lawn horse, crying in my ears like death. Looking through the glasses, I saw that it had painted my hands with imaginary colors and roped them in a strange grid. My hands were not mine, just an amorphous blob of sea that broke against the shore of my nails, and my hair had become a stream of water shooting into the sky. Across from me sat two metallic women with glowing red eyes and a small pillar of tentacles, all coworkers wearing the holographic sensors. The water made me feel like resting or running a marathon, staying intact or breaking apart into thousands of pieces.

Reaching forward, I scooped berries and bread onto a plate while the server prepared our wine. She shot the wine through a series of pipes into the warmed krater where it mixed with spoonfuls of dark-colored spices that turned it from a beautiful red to the color of purple-and-blue berries. She mellowed it with sugar and water, water and sugar. She mellowed it with prayers. In the hypnotic menagerie of living dreams, only she remained untouched by the illusions my glasses and sensory equipment brought me. I wonder what workers in these entertainment places think about customers. Are we just people looking for an excuse to experience insanity for a few hours, or do we come here to escape from our human weaknesses? A combination of both? All I know is that the light playing in front of my eyes dazzled me. In my weakened state, I thought that the wine’s perfume-dark scent came from the server’s hair. She poured my fluke of berry-dark alcoholic bliss first. I felt pure euphoria when I pressed the glass to my lips.

The show erupted into scenes of madness from the Shushei Enaharipui. I saw the destruction of the First City begun by a young woman in the grip of a strange fever. As the city burned, I felt as though the water sizzled against my skin. Breaking buildings filled me with terror I could not rationalize. Hatred for this woman—yes, hatred. I wanted to crush her. Perhaps they would let us do that in the next simulation.

“The electrodes on your head elicit an emotional response,” a voice said behind me. “Social conditioning at its most extreme.”

I took another sip from the fluke and turned my body. Moving was harder than normal because my body felt as heavy as a human-sized container of water. The dàmorai’s four wings flitted and buzzed independently of the person’s motions, well-endowed like the Nakbur carvings, yet subdued and feminized with strange curves. The simulations in Menarka don’t allow dàmorai patterns because correctly applying the character of the legendary creatures requires stimulating emotions more worthy of a sex club than a sophisticated gathering, but this one’s voice sounded comforting and familiar to me, different from any male voice I had heard. A palette of colored lights swirling through the sky or a bird crying on the beach. The water feedback had slowed my mind enough that I could not remember whether or not he had come with our group. “I know.”

He curled up beside me on the bench. I felt his heartbeat with my hand as he set his drink on the table. The imagery had changed into a seascape that tantalized me with dizzying heights and drops. My element. I felt my consciousness dissipating into the sea. Only his arms around me held me there.

“Give me some clarification,” he said as we passed among the kelp forests. I grabbed hold of his right hand and pulled it around my body towards my chest.

We spent three hours sitting together like that drinking and talking, my responses automatic and uncaring because my mind had drifted away from reality. I do remember the drunkenness and the night birds crying in the trees outside, the hum of the commuter pod engine beneath my legs, the burning in my lips. The two of us decided on an apartment. The alcohol had addled our brains too much to care about anything else. I think I remember some of what happened afterward. I wanted it. Feminine hands brushed across my cheek and grasped the gyena scarf, spilling it onto the bedroom furniture in a nod to respect. Our lips pressed together with no care for reason or propriety, just bare bodies touching and the breaking of pure maidenhood. Her bed smelled like pressed flowers and antique lace, rocket fuel and steel; her hair smelled like wine. The full moons shone through the open window like mismatched breasts. We fell asleep in their soft light.

Four hours later, I awoke and looked down at her arms. Horror snaked through my head and I still cannot write who she was without the shame paralyzing my hand. Unlike several hours ago, I cannot run from her room and put her face behind me. Hopefully, the wine has touched her brain enough that she won’t remember my gasping cries or upturned face.

My blue scarf still lies draped over her bureau.