Man, Get Yourself a Woman

Elizabeth had her writing and her editing jobs, loved to read, and loved arguing about style and flow with uppity editing AIs. I had my new struggle to start using my brain more fully, and both of us had even tried our hand at digital art and painting. It was going better than the gardening had; we'd let the AI take that over. House had gotten a little outdoor addon. Elizabeth called it "Greenie." I called it "Dirtee." The yard out front was more properly a greenhouse -- fully enclosed. Elizabeth could go there without having to wear her equipment.

At any time, though, we could drop all of that. We could both tell the fucked world to go fuck itself and have another honeymoon. Even Elena had admitted that that made her a little bit envious.

Those were a lot of prizes. Elizabeth was well within her rights to push me.

I sighed. "I'm trying, baby girl. It's just hard. No one else compares to you. You're so special to me." I sighed again. "I know I'm not saying this right. I know I'm not making my point."

She reached back and patted my shoulder. "I do love being the prettiest; I do love being your favorite. Let's never change that, ever. But focus on this idea, Paul: 'like,' or 'how.' Paul, I love you, and I will never love anyone like that. I want you, and I will never want anyone like that. I need you, too, though. That's the crux of it. That's one of the things that makes our relationship 'special.' It's a tricky word. It's a tricky idea."

"Yeah," I agreed. That was indeed the crux of it -- the thing I didn't want to understand, but did.

"I suppose, though," she said, "by some terrible miracle -- unlucky and then lucky again -- I might get someone else's cum instead of yours someday. I know I wouldn't be able to turn it down. We both know that. We both know it's a little bit sad that what feels special... isn't."

"I don't want it to be," I said. "For me, I mean. That last part. Cum is cum. Mine shouldn't be special."

"It's scientifically confirmed not to be," she joked.

"Ah well," I said. "No lifetime of medical experiments. Would've sent my social through the roof."

She let us have the moment, but then refocused. "Everyone is cool, Paul," she said, "and I'm not ashamed. How lucky are we for Elena, too?"

"Very," I said. "And for Suzy. And for Claire. And even for Bea and Betty, though they're a little much sometimes."

"Mmmm, but that does give you an excuse to spank the shit out of them."

"Well, relationships are complicated. There's a million different kinds of love."

"Exactly," she said. The trap was sprung. "You deserve different kinds, and so do I. Above all else, we deserve loves without needs attached. I deserve to love without need. You deserve to love without being needed. But go ahead and say it, Paul. Say it out loud. We have to air it out."

"I want us to have them all," I said, "even if that means not having any with anyone else. It's stupid and it's impossible, and I'm a giant hypocrite, but it's what I want."

She sighed. She didn't speak the same impossible wish back to me. It hurt so very badly.

"I'd like you to read something, please," she said quietly. She got up off her chair -- me -- and called up a file on her holopad. We used the eye-HUDs plenty, but art was special. Elizabeth's was the most special of all. I'd read some of her old work. I hadn't yet read anything new. I knew that was about to change.

"Of course, baby girl," I said. I felt guilty for already being sad. Her work deserved to do that on its own merits -- but then, everything was connected. Never would that be more true.

She handed me the pad. We both understood the moment she was creating. The act of giving me something was important, and the weight of the physical object made everything more real. Elena was a painter. Claire was a lawyer. Suzy was an amateur hologame developer, of all things.

Elizabeth was a writer.

She slipped into a different chair. I settled into mine to read a new work by Elizabeth Wells -- in English, graciously, for her caretaker's benefit:

What if there were a cat

that knew it was a cat

and knew it was owned

by a nice young girl

who thought it was pretty just because

and wanted to pet it all the time --

who brushed it and fed it

and loved it with all her heart?

That would be a very different kind of cat.

I wonder, though, how different it would be.

How would it feel about the hand that fed it?

Would it be more or less inclined to let it pet it?

Would it still wander? Would it chance? Would it dare?

Would it appreciate more or less the patch of sunlight on the floor?

What if that cat

that knew it was a cat

saw the girl --

who could open the bags and cans and doors

and could use the brush, and could light up all the shiny things in world

and make them dance and sing --

and wished, perhaps, it could be that?

Somewhere, long ago --

or some time, far away --

there was a girl who knew she was a girl

who wished sometimes that she could be a cat.

She would be pretty just because;

everyone would want to pet her

but she would have teeth and claws

and could decide who could, and when.

She would always have a home;

she would always be fed

and she could be aloof or wander off for days

and then come back, and be loved again --

and maybe even more than before.

Somewhere not so far away,

there is girl who knows she is a cat

but obviously a very different kind:

the kind whose fangs and claws are words

yet loves to be petted all the time.

Her collar is pretty.

Her owner is kind.

His home is a palace

that she can laze in all day

and she is always well fed.

Her leash is always by the door;

he will take her anywhere she wants to go.

But she knows enough to know the rules

and that she is never more free

than when she stretches out in that patch of sunlight on the floor.

She wonders about girls and cats.

She wonders what she should wish for --

what she should wish to be.

She wonders if anyone or anything is so complete

that they have no need for wishes anymore.

There is a girl, who is a cat, who is owned, and who is loved.

And of course she wants what she cannot have,

but also,

she loves what she has.

She does.

She'd made herself quiet -- invisible, almost. She reappeared when she knew that I was done. She waited just the right amount of time, and asked the perfect question.

"It's not too sad, is it?"

"No," I told her through my tears. "It's just the right amount."

"Will you?" she asked. "Will you, please?"

I nodded.

"You're my good little kitty-kat," I told her. "You're mine forever. I own you, and I love you so, so much."

"I love you, too, Master," she said, and she changed right before my eyes. She was more herself than she'd ever been. She'd found her way. She'd found a way.

I cried, and it was okay.