You started coming home smelling of WD-40, grease stains on your jeans. You
wanted a change, you said, but would not explain from what.
When I caught you in the bathroom with your lower leg folded open, chrome flash of
pistons under the wet human lining, it was as if I’d interrupted you with a lover. But then, love for you had never been about the physical act. We always had to be mindful of your heart, avoid sudden surprises, excesses of emotion.
We fought that night, in our quiet, careful way. I watched a tear well up, form a
perfect droplet, fall silently.
When you came back with new eyes, told me you could see in infra-red, you
explained that the self-lubricating design rendered lacrimal glands obsolete. Crying was just evolutionary baggage anyway, vestigial.
Tonight, you pressed the long key into my hand, took me out to run laughing through
the fair like teenagers again, share neon-lit kisses on the Ferris wheel.
Then your heart stopped, and I realised what the key was for.
Steven lives in Perth, Western Australia, where he buys too many books, provides domestic services to two cats, and occasionally writes.
This story won First Prize in the July 24 Monthly Micro Competition.
Wow. That was beautiful and intense. Wow.