I visited Paul last Friday after work.
I think it’ll be the last time.
Six years since he lost the flesh and bone version of little Ada.
Four, since he got her back, in a way.
Three and a half since Clair left him.
It’s not her. She’s gone. This is sick.
Whatever that thing is, it’s not her Paul!
Of course he knew it wasn’t her.
The point was he didn’t care.
The room was dark and stale.
Discarded food wrappers covered the table.
He’d had to clear a space to put down the goggles.
They were grimy. Well worn.
A faint ring of light still bled from the front.
He hadn’t switched them off.
Hadn’t switched her off.
I could hear the ocean faintly. Muffled. And her.
Daddy look at this one! Daddy!
Jesus Christ, how long had he spent on that beach?
We swapped banality, I don’t know for how long.
It was as if I was holding him underwater.
His eyes endlessly returned to the bleeding light.
I mumbled an excuse to leave.
He was back in before I even got to the door.
I heard a muffled Clair call out.
I guess he’d added her too.
The whole family reunited.
In silicon.
Myelin or matrices?
Neurotransmitters or transistors?
Pupils or pixels?
Does it matter?
In there, he could still hold his baby in his arms.
In there, he was made whole.
It was already turning dark when I stepped out.
I shivered, it was cool and crisp.
Some of the brighter stars were already out,
flickering as they pushed gently through the dusk.
Like dead pixels, hanging in the sky.
