Twenty-three Small Disasters

The Boyfriend is slumped against the wall of my parents' apartment. The wall folds out into bunk beds, tables, a set of bookshelves, the TV, but right now it is flat, and the room lies open. The Boyfriend is not so convenient. He lacks right angles and clever, interlocking parts. He cannot be stored. This sets him apart in our household, in any household. It's a part of his design. He's not a person, but he can't be treated like a normal thing.

He looks nothing like you, but just his name, Boyfriend, brings you to mind. That makes me want to throw the Boyfriend across the room, or kick him, but he's too heavy to move, and too expensive to kick. Instead I slump down on the floor next to him.

The Boyfriend's not mine, of course. I may be young, but I'm too old for that. He belongs to SpaceHero, my little sister. You remember her. Or you should.

Yes, SpaceHero is too young for a Boyfriend, but SpaceHero has decided that she wants to be a grownup. It's a cult among the enhanced kids. They found competitions online: who can design the cheapest flood-friendly buildings, who can devise the most profitable model for water conservation in Niger, who can move the most money to famine refugees in Pakistan. SpaceHero has a friend at school who's secretly started a venture capital firm focused on orbit agriculture. Don't ask me where the money comes from, but I assure you it's there.

When I was her age, I watched a lot of cartoons on TV.

I don't know what you did. Did they have afternoon cartoons back then, or did you play tag? Ride a bike?

SpaceHero bought the Boyfriend last year, around the time I moved in with you. She didn't know what to do with him, of course. He was another fake login that said she was 35, another purse or vacuum cleaner or empty whiskey flask. I don't think he's ever been used.

I run a finger along his cold bicep, and his body clicks on, warms. He looks down at me, and I see him for what he is, bumper cars, tilt-a-whirl, nothing compared to the stomach-dropping, heart-pumping rush of the triple loop de loop at speeds of over 100 miles per hour.

He puts a pale arm around me. I lean in.

We sit there and look out the window at the city for just long enough. When he pulls me into an embrace, his chest is so warm. It is firm and hairless, so unlike yours, but the warmth is the same. You are the same temperature, the same heat. The Boyfriend lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me. He kisses perfectly, and his lips show mine how to be perfect too. It is a patient, passionless kiss. It is so safe. We were nothing like this, we were too timid and then too wild, spit on the edges of our mouths, our kisses were smears, they were messes. But it feels good to close my eyes and pretend this machine is you, that we were clean and safe, and you showed me how to be perfect.

Meghan McCarron is a recent graduate of Wesleyan University who teaches high school kids to make movies. Her work has appeared in a number of venues, including Strange Horizons, and has been longlisted for both the South Million Writers award and the Tiptree award. She is working on a novel about girls who kick ass. You can find her blog at http://megmccarron.livejournal.com