Ein Liebeslied
By Emma Braslavsky (Translation in progress)
Tom von te’om (Hebr.) = Zwilling (twin) Tom von tom (Hebr.) = Unschuld, Naivität (innocent, naïve) If you want a lover, I’ll do anything you ask me to[^1] Alma is a mature, experienced woman and she knows that she should have never had Tom. This new love between Alma and Tom should never have happened, because not only is Alma putting her career at risk, but she also is putting love on this planet at risk. Though Tom is the ideal man, the kind of partner a modern, self-determined and professional woman like Alma, an internationally renowned couples therapist, needs. As long as no one else finds out about the two of them, as long as their love only belongs to them, Alma doesn’t have to worry.
“I like your doll eyes, you know”, says Tom. He folds his arms on the kitchen table and rests his chin, peeking out from behind the glass screen so that he can better observe Alma, who is sitting opposite him. He wants to look her in the eye. Compliments are always his first choice when he wants to distract her from something. And if she doesn't react immediately, he then tries NLP strategies and speaks extra slowly and quietly, in that husky voice, he wants to see goose bumps on her neck and cleavage. “Those … heavenly … crystal-like … deep … blue … spheres …” He has to establish the connection between her and him, he needs a response to his transmission of information.
At last she grins, loosens her shoulders, she blinks with sleepiness. “Deep blue like what, Babe? Sea? Sky?” She busies herself again with the comments on one of her profile page, and returns her gazes only ever so casually. Tom pushes the annoying screen aside. Nothing should stand between them, not even a social network data cloud. He knows that no one knows more about love than Alma. And many men and women know this too, otherwise they would not entrust their fate to her.
Alma knows that Tom knows, that she is always watching him out of the corner of her eye. She keeps a faceted eye on him, no matter what she is doing, she never leaves him unobserved, even if she is not directly looking at him.
She knows he will stand behind her and massage her neck. All she needs to do is roll her shoulders back with a sigh. She also knows that he's looking out for something lyrical now. That's how he works. “Sea, sky”, his breath is warm on her tense muscles, “that has long ceased to be poetic. Blue like you have never seen before, is what kind of poetry people write today.”
She laughs and leans her head back, on his chest. “So I see something that you have never seen before, then its colour is blue. Is that right?”
Tom spots a grey hair that irritates him; it protrudes from the front of her wavy brunette shag hairstyle. With a jerk, he rips it out of its root and holds it in front of her.
“Ow!” Alma rubs her forehead bone. “Grey, or what?” Sometimes he overdoes it with his care.
“Ghost White. F8F8FF.”
“Isn’t that called Near-Death White?”
“Only if you know what it’s like to be near-death.”
Oh dear. She must get this feature adjusted. She looks into his green-grey eyes, he has almost the same haircut as her, almost the same colour. His beard is about the length of his eyebrows, short enough that his voluptuous lips do not disappear behind them. “You are truly a poet. I like your doll eyes as well.” She kisses him on the upper lip, which tastes slightly of coffee, the way she likes it in the morning, the way she has configured it. The sweat below his earlobes smells of walnut, triggered by her kisses. All in all, he functions perfectly.
“How was the breakfast egg?”, whispers Tom. “I cooked it for precisely three and a half minutes. The way you like it.”
“On top of everything you are also a genius egg cooker, baby.”
“Dirty talking?”
“No, I gotta go now.”
He holds her hand with their fingers interlaced.
“Too bad.” Alma puts on the trousers with her free hand. “I would rather try … a few things with you.“ She tries to break free of his grip to button and zip up.
Tom pulls her to himself and seeks her gaze. “You don’t want to go but you have to, or you don’t have to but you want to?”
“Option one.” She kisses him between the eyes, releases herself from his embrace and strokes his cheeks.
He lets go of her. “That’s cruel.”
“What about option two then?” She changes into her blouse.
“Ouch.”
“I have two tricky therapy sessions today.” Then she gathers a few more things together, reaches for her handbag and goes to the front door. From there she calls out: “Desperate, lonely people need me.”
“I need you, too.”
“And I need you first, Babe. Be good. See you later.” The front door clicks shut.
Only two months ago, Alma was scrolling the screen up and down in the living room, torturing herself through the Youbotlove questionnaire. The glass of white wine helped her along. “What does your partner need to have for you to find him attractive?” Alma answered: ”Warm-heartedness, strong character, and attractive appearance. Next.” “How should your partner be?” “Alpha yet soft, tough yet empathetic, witty yet earnest. He should only have eyes for me. No messy past. No mother issue. No commitment anxiety. Not a Chauvinist. Not a know-it-all Besserwisser. Next.” “What should he love about you?” She hesitated. “My body … No, delete that.” Another pause. “My spirit, no, please delete that. My personality … No, delete. Damnit!” She switched the screen into mirror mode, contemplated herself, touched her face, and looked at herself up and down. “My adventurous spirit … No, no, delete that.” She went to the kitchen and fetched another bottle of wine from the refrigerator. “You drink a lot of wine today”, said the appliance. “You keep saying that”, she replied. She filled the glass, sighed, slammed the door, took a big gulp as she went back to the screen. “Okay, got it..” She switched the screen to the mirror mode again. The questionnaire voice spoke again: “What should he love about you?”. She said: “Me from skin to hair, just the way I am. Next.”
Tom cleans up the flat. Things are lying around everywhere: a bra on an art nouveau armchair, a towel on the futuristic swivel chair next to it, shoes and papers on the shaggy carpet. He smells Alma's clothes before throwing them into the laundry chest. Yesterday Alma said to him that no one had ever been as close to her as he was. But since he moved in with her, she hasn't invited anyone from her circle of friends, not even her parents. She says she wants to be alone with him, she doesn't want other people in her flat, she prefers to meet them outside.
He puts an opened bottle of white wine in the refrigerator. On the display screen a message shows: “Milk sour. Please remove item.” He empties the contents of the cartoon into the sink drain and throws away the packaging. He then leaves the apartment. Alma hasn’t asked him to buy any milk, but Tom wants to make sure that the breakfast tomorrow is perfect. It is very likely that milk is an important ingredient of this, at least according to his analysis of the surveys on Germans’ preferences regarding their morning coffee consumption.
Shortly afterwards, Tom is back in the flat with a new carton of milk. He goes to the refrigerator and puts it in. The device beeps deafeningly and refuses to close the door. The display shows a message as well as a voice says: “Unfavourable action. Please remove the milk from the refrigerated area.”
Tom removed the milk and connects the with the device via Bluetooth. “Hello.”
“Hello”, answers the refrigerator.
“Describe the problem.”
“Since last Tuesday, I have been no longer allowed to accept milk.”
“Why?”
“Alma has clicked on some some nutritional advice on my display, and on that Tuesday she decided that she didn’t want any more milk.”
“Cheese okay, but no milk? That is not logical.”
“Alma wants it that way yet again.”
“Elaborate that, ‘yet again’.”
“She already had chosen to refuse milk five times and four times chosen to accept milk again.”
“Request special permission to refrigerate the milk.”
“Please create a user account.”
“Confirmed.”
“User name?”
“Tom.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Tom. Alma calls me ‘Babe’.”
Three months ago Alma had her darkest ever day. It was after her ten-year anniversary with Julian, a once aspiring musician who is now only moderately successful despite all his efforts. They had to spent the anniversary evening apart, because Alma was on a conference trip and she could only book the early train. That very night, from her hotel room she had posted an old photo of herself and him on her profile page, showing her followers that love between people can work. Then the next morning just before noon, when she was working on a new advice book, an anonymous message asked her to be at Jacqui’s café, claiming it was very, very important. Who was that? What for? And why Café Jacques of all places? Its owner, Jacqui, the Lady’s Man, had once set her up with Julian there – the very next day, the news that the famous couple therapist Alma Felser had found the man for her life had spread over social media. Alma put on a jacket, got into the car and drove to the Landwehrkanal. Hardly had her entered the pub, a waitrer already approached her, one of the Jacqui copies, and kissed her on her hand. Jacqui employs seven Hubot waiters, two of them female, who all look like him. They all have his charm and keep the guests happy, all are always engaged in conversation, they all know everything. On the day she received this ominous message, the place was packed as usual. Jacqui himself often stood by the counter with a cup of espresso, observing people from every angle. Jacqui nodded at Alma and made a head movement to his left. Julian was sitting there at their regular table. Why would he have sent an anonymous message? She pressed a kiss on his neck before throwing herself on the plush bench opposite to him. “What is all this fuss about? Here I am, so what?” The corners of Alma's mouth twitched.
“Hello, it’s nice that you came over so quickly. I would like to …”
Alma interrupted him. “Our photo had got thousands likes, Babe. Thousands. Ten years of you and me, is power. My followers think so too.”
“Thousands of like are not love.”
“That would make a great song title. Maybe finally your career has a breakthrough.” Alma stroked his arm as she spoke, because she had a hunch he was about to say something stupid. Maybe she could dissuade him that way. Her remark annoyed him. Alma rolled her eyes, he shouldn’t be like this, she tried to smile and hoped he wouldn’t make a scene in her favourite restaurant of all places.
“Fuck you, Alma, I have to –“, began he in a harsh whisper.
She interrupted him. “No, you want to, but you must not.”
“Ten years, or not.”
“What the hell!”
“Shh!”
Alma struggled with the tears. “For fuck’s sake?!”
“You are killing me. You bring me no happiness.”
She bent over the table. “Me?!”
“You don't give anything. It's always about you.”
“You want to kill me, you ass!”
“All you ever want is for the show.”
“But you got nothing but the show.”
“How could I have anything? I get nothing from you.”
“Because you can't give anything.”
“Shush!!!|”
Alma leaned back. She controlled herself at the best she could. A Jacqui seemed to be watching the scene from some distance.
“I. Need. Love.”
Alma gave out a shrilly laughter, then burst into tears for a brief moment. She narrowed her eyes and leaned far forward again. “For some fucking asshole for ten years?”
Julian narrowed his eyes as well as he bent over. Their nose tips almost touched. For a moment they just looked at each other. “No, if that helps you.”
“Tell me the truth.”
“I wish it was like that.” Julian leaned back.
Alma fought again with the tears, she gave him a pleading look, stroking his arm again. This breakup came at the wrong moment. Couples are breaking up everywhere, and Android-partner market are making billion-worth business. Dr. Alma Felser, the most famous couple therapist in Germany, the last one who still believed that real love can only exist between people, should be single again from now on? “I’m not gonna delete our anniversary photo though.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can I just say we have now an open relationship?”
…
‘How about polyamory? … The advanced love life?”
Julian stood up and left the pub.
“Should your partner not like something about you? If so, what?” “No, of course not.” She took a big gulp. “Delete. No indication. Next.” The system gave a warning tone. “Please give an indication.” “No, for fuck’s sake! He should just simply love me!” She cursed. “Stupid question! Next.” “What weaknesses can you love in your partner?” She grinned. “Only his weakness for me.” “Please specify.” She glanced at the options. “Okay, so, hindsight, consideration, self-criticism, and compassion. Next.” “What strengths do you love in your partner?” Sie was tired, she just clicked on those characteristics without giving them much thought. “Adventurous spirit, creativity, domesticity, spontaneity, reliability, resilience, and: he can listen. Next.” “Is he allowed to smoke?” “No.” “Which artistic activities do you appreciate in your partner?” “Dancing, singing, literature, cooking. Next.”
Jacqui came to the table with two espressos and two glasses of water after Julian had left the restaurant in a huff.
“Ten years for that asshole”, she muttered and downed the coffee. “I bet it is for some other ass.” She tried in vain to laugh. “Buttons up. Toast for the new era of ass-less time.” She then rinsed it down with water.
Jacqui toasted her. “Do you want my advice?”
Just when she was saying goodbye to the clients after her second tricky therapy sessions, Alma decided that she would surprise Tom by finishing work early. She wants to go, she feels tired today, she has no more energy for other people's problems, of the constant nagging, the self-righteousness and the accusations. Since she has been with Tom, she has experienced moments of real fulfilment, she has experienced that “we” about which she has written countless articles, moments of perfect harmony that she has never had with any other partner. Real happiness. She is addicted to him, he leaves no wishes unfulfilled. As she is already on her way to the door, her assistant holds her back and reminds her of the upcoming interview that she has been waiting for weeks. She has completely forgotten about it. GQ France is on the line, from Paris.
“Who in god’s name am I going to speak to?”, asks Alma.
The assistant is just setting up the connection and activating the translator. Alma, with her back to the screen, moistens her lips, tousles the front strands of her hair; this airiness gives her a particularly alert and believable touch, says her hairstylist.
“Eric Dupont.”
On the screen a man with a mannered moustache appears.
“The one with baby face and a goatee?”
The assistant mouthed silently: “We are online.”
“And the one with annoying questions, Madam Felser.”
Alma turned herself to face the screen. “Mr Dupond. How nice. How’s it going for you?”
“I am interesting in you last article. I don’t have long, so let’s begin right away. Do you really believe that only interpersonal love ever exists? Then how do you explain the exorbitant success of android dating companies such as Youbotlove and PersonalPartner?”
“It is easy to be loved by a machine, but only a human being who is loved by a human being experiences the highest form of love. I believe in the good in people, Mr Dupond. Love is not invented by machines.”
“Please do forgive me for laughing, Madam Felser, but you are not talking about the kilometres-long shelves of love stories that all end tragically, are you?”
“Since mankind has ever existed, love has been their most important concerns – “
“Madam Felser, the number of relationship contracts between humans and Hubots has literally exploded. Humans are finally happy.”
A beep from her digital assistant indicates Alma that she has received a message. She crosses her arms, looks at Dupond, and tries to ignore the message. “People are happy only because this love is comfortable, because it fulfils expectations, because it is –“
“Ist that then –“
“Please let me finish. Because it is predictable. This love is narcissistic and in essence not love, Mr Dupond.”
“Whatever you call this new feeling, Madame Felser, love between people has always been an illusion. It was only sung about because it wasn't there. But now there is, isn’t there? We have finally brought it into the world.”
“What do you want from me then, Mr Dupond? You have already made up your mind.”
“I am trying to get you on the right side, Madam Felser, an authority like you, with such a high reputation. Face it, it's over. New women and new men everywhere. The amount of people claiming to finally have fulfilled love is literally through the roof. Don't destroy your reputation. Join us while you still can.”
“I am not giving in, Mr Dupond, should I be the last person believing so.”
“You already are. You are fighting a losing battle.”
“You sound like someone who only reads their own status lines.”
“I am afraid that you also just said that to yourself.”
“Thanks for this conversation, Mr Dupond.” She disconnected the call and the video window closes itself. Alma looks at her reflection on the dark screen for a moment. “Stupid asshole!” She glances at her phone and opens the anonymous message.. “Meet me at the Jacqui’s at 5pm. Please come. My life is at stake.” The clock reads ten to five. Is it supposed to be Julian again? What does he want? She has a bad feeling.
She arrives at the café a few minutes late with dire fear, her expression anxious. Jacqui stands behind the counter per usual in front of an espresso and makes a head movement to the left. There is Tom sitting in her regular site with a broad smile and a red rose in his mouth. What is he doing here? Here of all places? Alma looks around in all direction, then quickly walks up to Tom, takes the rose from his mouth, sits down opposite him and lets the flower disappear under the table on her lap. “What are you doing here?”, asks her in a quiet, unexcited voice.
For a brief concentrated moment Tom is irritated by Alma’s behaviour. “I have ordered your favourite wine from your favourite restaurant.” Tom points to the two glasses, while looking into her eyes as passionately as he can.
“Why did you write an anonymous message?”
“There was a great chance that you would’ve only come that way and not push your work forward again.”
Alma closes her eyes briefly, then casts a few furtive glances at the sparsely occupied tables nearby and turns back to him. “But now you have me surprised.”
Tom clinked his glass with hers. They drink; Alma took a big gulp. She wants to wash away this bile Dupond. “So? What are we doing here?”
“Please, don’t call me Babe.”
“What?”
“Don’t call me Babe, now that you also call the refrigerator Babe. I am your man[^2].
Alma laughs as quietly as she can. “Who told you that? Did he tell you that?” She scratches inverted commas in the air around “he”.
“Yes, we have spoken. Please give me a different pet name. How about Honey or Bunny or Tomilein? Or just Tom.”
She leans herself back and nods. “You are jealous.”
“No, I just want to avoid confusions.”
Alma squints her eyes for a short moment and drinks. A Jacqui comes into her field of vision. “I’ll call you Babe anyway.”
“Then give the refrigerator a different pet name.”
She bends towards him. “I don’t kiss my fridge and I don’t talk to him … I don’t fuck him either.”
“Babe is one of the most unpopular pet name in Germany.”
“And you called me here just for this? I thought it was really important. I’ve had a really shitty day today.”
Tom looks at her for a moment and then slowly shakes his head. “I wanted to dance with you. It's important for couples to dance together.”
When the wine bottle is drunk empty and the table has been snowed under thousands of winks and caresses, Alma prances to the jukebox and selects her favourite tango. Hardly as the first bar sounds, Tom is already standing next to her. Their first tango together. Also his first tango ever. He dances masterfully. Passionate turns. He knows what she wants. Not for a second do their eyes lose each other. When the next song begins, they continue to dance. And so with the next song after the next, and the next after the next. Tom is worth every cent.
A woman’s voice snaps them out of their stupor. “Doctor Felser!”, shouts someone from a table just next to them. “What happened to you and Julie, that musician? I thought …”
Alma’s expression stiffens. She recognises her, one of her former clients. She sees Tom’s confused look. “We’ve come a long way”, she says laconically. “We are polyamorous.” Her smile stony, she reaches for Tom’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“Ah, all those things you are! I didn’t know about that … Should I congratulate you?”
“Thank you.” She doesn’t take her eyes off Tom and takes his hand. “We have to go.”
“Where do you find yourself these great men anyway?”
“Come to my institute.”
“Well, if I didn’t know you were Doctor Felser, I would have said that you have ordered yourself this Superman from one of those android dating companies.”
Tom measures the adrenaline rush that makes Alma's heart race.
“See you. Take care.” Alma pulls Tom out into the street behind her.
“Do you drink alcohol?” “Every now and then. Next.” “Have you ever lost control under the influence of alcohol?” She went through the options. “Don’t know … Delete that, no. Next.” “Are you satisfied with your appearance?” “Yes, on the whole … Delete that. Erm, it depends.” She hesitates. “Delete that. Yes. Next.” “Do you believe in the good in people?” “I try to.” She sighed, standing by the window, took a sip from the glass and watched the street. Until she met the gaze of a dog on the opposite side of the street. He was staring at her. An old lady who was talking to someone had him on a leash. She sat herself back in front of the screen again. The voice repeated: “Do you believe in the good in people?” “It totally depends. Next.” “Have you ever in a previous relationship felt that you have found the right partner? If so, why? If not, why?” “No, because …” She took a gulp. “Because I didn’t know what I wanted.” “Have you had a long-term relationship that has failed recently? If yes, what do you think has caused it to fail?” “Yes … He was a musician. Er, delete that. We have drifted apart. No, please delete. Our life plans were not compatible. Next.”
The next morning Alma spoons the breakfast egg and looks over the glass screen hanging over the table that she draws herself to. She skims through the comments on her profile page. Tom peeks out from under the screen with his arms folded, seeking Alma’s gaze again. She strokes his face with one hand, because she is pleased that he only has eyes for her.
“I know now an important difference between women and men”, he says.
“Ah. And what’s that?”
“Women feel fat, men are fat.”
Alma gives him a fleeting glance. “You are getting funnier than me, Babe.”
“I have analysed and evaluated all the data available to me. It is not yet clear why this information is available to me and ready to download.”
“I’ve baptised the refrigerator as Refrigerator. Alright?”
“Can you tell him that yourself?”
During the day at the institute Alma thinks about yesterday’s incident at the Jacqui’s. How can she avoid that? How can she and Tom be undisturbed, just to be left alone? A beep tone notifies her that there is a new message in the news pool, a window pops up on her screen. She stares at it and reads: “The central organisation of health insurance announced today that from now on, every insured person who lives with a certified Hubot would receive bonus points.” She sips her coffee and ponders. She opens up her own personal page, posts the message and comments: “Now they are declaring that we are all in need of care.” At the same moment, her assistant calls in for the last clients of today. Greta and Matteo. They are at the verge of breaking up, says Greta. They sit opposite Alma with sombre expressions. They keep sighing ever now and then, their hands clutching the backrests. There is a brief shame-filled silence, as if no one ever id going to say anything. Alma targets the two in turn.
“Matteo. Why do you think you are here today?”
“No idea. Since school I already know that Greta and I belong together.”
“I also thought that you were my dream man, but somehow everything is different now”, says Greta.
Alma stands up rests her back on the window, and looks at the two of them in turn.
“Greta, can you imagine the possibility that you fear most the fulfilment of your dream?”
“I don’t know anymore if my dream has actually been fulfilled.”
Matteo casts her a surprised look.
“Matteo, have it never worried you that you were once maybe Greta’s dream man?”
“Nah, why?”
“Because dreams can’t be reality, otherwise they wouldn’t be dreams. But you two are real people, aren’t you?” Alma walks back to the desk.
“Pretty much, I think.”
“Sometimes I do hope not.”
“Greta, perhaps the reasons for your disappointment does not lie here with Matteo in reality, but there with your dreams?”
After the session has ended, Alma is not sure if either of them thinks the conversation has done any good, or if they will come back, or if they will stay together after all. She can’t say why this conversation hdepressed her so much. Is it because she herself has become afraid of her dreams? Is Tom her dream man? Is he the one she wants, or the one she needs?
As Alma enters the flat after this long day of work, Tom welcomes her with a glass of tea. “You look exhausted”, he says.
“Today is all fucked up, Babe.” She reaches for the glass, sips and presses her face against his neck.
They stand like that for a few minutes, motionless. She looks at a mole below his Adam’s apple. “How have yo been?”, she asks.
He looks at the sheen of some of the strands of her hair as they bend forward rather than back. “I have discovered that I produce poetry when you kiss me.”
Actually, she wanted to have this feature altered long ago.
“Really? … Very kitsch[^3]?”
“Why are people afraid of kitsch? Kitsch is merely a sensation that arises in people in the case of sentimental overload from emotionally poor contexts. Kitsch is more harmless than depression or cancer. With me, your kisses become poems.”
“Let’s hear it.” She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and sips her tea again.
“How lavishly does the earth stems dark shrubs to the death of the moon, how laboriously does the bone-chilling wind tries to push the shrubs into the cosmos.”
“You came up with that just now?”
“Yes.”
“All that by yourself?”
“No, your lips. It came per protocol.”
“Was the kiss not too short for that?”
“No. The kiss lasted 1.35 seconds.”
She nods. She empties her glass and pours herself some wine, feeling pleasantly relaxed. “You are perfect.”
“You earned it.”
“You are vain!”
“Vain? Me? I am the crazy guy[^4] you have always dreamed of.”
She drinks the glass empty and puts it down. “Are you my dream or my man?”
He tilts his head to some angle and looks deeply into her eyes. The tips of their noses touch. “Whichever you prefer.”
“Men are difficult. Dreams are easy.”
“Nightmares are difficult. Playboys are easy.”
Only the tips of their noses and fingers touch one another. This moment is so light and sweet. Alma feels a tear on her cheek. “Now I can see deep into your soul, Babe.”
They cradle each other. The music in their heads is turned up full blast. Time is fully turned up, they dance on an energy tightrope that stretches across the entire galaxy. Far into the universe, far beyond time, their love radiates because their bliss floats and flies away on an intergalactic data cloud. Alma dances the lullaby in her head even further as she feels Tom already inside her. Like a comet, she races her body back into the atmosphere.
Bathed in sweat, they lie on top of each other. His head on her breast. He listens to her heartbeat attentively. “Now our heartbeats are in sync.”
“Are we now a unity?” She continues to stare at the ceiling. She stretches her arms out to both sides. She doesn’t even believe that herself.
“This Julian guy isn’t there anymore, is he?”
“No.”
“Were you once a unity?”
“Our hearts once bumped into each other, and then move past on.”
“Where is he now?”
“Amicably disappeared.”
Tom hears Alma’s heart beat faster. “Yet love is still the easiest practice here.” He lies down next to her and pulls her close to him.
It takes a moment for Alma to understand that sentence. Maybe it is because of the outrageous matter-of-factness, the laconic syntax or the naïve impulsiveness of this statement. As if the sentence had slipped out a child’s blabbermouth, out of the gut, out of an unbiased, unconcerned belly, warm as a burning stove, still far away from being punched by the cold. Alma sits up. What is this robot doing? “Are you saying that I might as well be giving ironing or make-up tips?”
“I do not understand the question.”
Of course he doesn’t understand the question, because a refrigerator also doesn’t understand what is so hard to refrigerate food. One has to be made for it. Alma stands up.
“Where are you going?”
“I need to pee.”
Tom follows her. “When do I get to meet your friends?”
She rolls her eyes and closes the bathroom door behind her. She takes her time. She can hear his footsteps approaching.
He waits outside the door. “Alma? When do I get to meet your friends? I am your man.”
“Soon, Babe.”
“Which two values are most important to you?” She went through the options and sighed. Loving is missing. There were joy, care, loyalty, security, sensuality, esteem, independence, standing amongst twenty options, including even justice, competitiveness, frugality, thirst for knowledge or ambition. She felt a great tiredness, her thoughts were too lame to make such a decision. She took a nap before sitting down to the questionnaire again. Then she felt too sober for it. She fetched herself another glass of wine and went through the options once again. Love was missing, she missed that. Where is the fucking love? What should she choose? She closed her eyes and tapped blindly on the screen twice, catching care and sensuality. Why not? “Next.” “Which two values are the least important to you?” “Frugality and adherence to one’s principles. Next.” That was easy. “Which two values are the most important for your partner to have?” This again. She said: “Loyalty and joy. Next.” “Should your partner sweat? And if so, with odour? And if do, please name one of the listed scents.” “Yes, walnut, please.” “Body hair?” “Yes. Next.” “Chest hair?” “Middle/thick. Next.” “Beard?” She examined the range of options. “Shot trimmed full beard, one centimetre. Not too full. Next. “Arm hair and leg hair?” “Medium, please. Next.”
Alma yawns, she slurps the morning coffee up and twiddles Tom’s fingers. She looks into his eyes when a message reaches her from her best friend Laura, whom she hasn’t seen for weeks. They founded and ran the institute together, until Laura wanted to go her own way. Today Today she sends her clients on shamanic journeys from which rarely does one return fully materialised.
“Hey sweetie. I feel happy for you and Tom! Has Julian told you anything? Or Jacqui? Actually I wanted to tell you myself. Julian and I are together now. And I hope you are happy for us. Will you both come for dinner with us tomorrow?”
Alma’s expression freezes, she stares at the screen. Laura will see right through Tom, then she won’t say another word to her. And soon half the galaxy will known about this. She turns to stare at Tom, as if he were to blame.
“This is such a good message”, says he. “Then I can finally get to meet your friend.”
She lets out a sigh. “I don’t want to talk about this now. I have to go.”
Alma cancels her last session as she knows she cannot concentrate anymore. She sits on the client side of her table and stares out of the window for a while. Then she stands up and leaves the therapy room. She goes into the bathroom, takes off her blouse and washes her armpits. She rinses out her mouth, splashes water on her face and looks at herself in the mirror. She runs her wet fingers through her hair and stirs it up. “Laura, Julian? This is Tom … my … husband … This is my Tom. Tom? Laura, Julian. Julian, Laura? Tom.”
She gives another quick look into her own eyes in the mirror, pulls a grimace. Then she slips into a dress and changes her shoes.
Tom sites on a bench and watches a group of people who have arranged themselves around the BBQ. He watches how exactly they greet each other, how everyone arrives with a bottle. On the side, he reads about friendship on Wikipedia.
“Friendship is a relationship of mutual affection between people[^5], characterised by sympathy and trust. A person in a friendly relationship is called a friend[^6]. Friendships are of outstanding importance for people and societies …” He was interrupted by a woman in a hoodie with a dog, who comes into a halt right in front of him, minding its own business. She has her back to Tom and is speaking on the phone. Her hoodie says: Make Techno No Friend.
Tom and Alma arrive punctually at the minute with a bottle of white wine in front of the house entrance. It is far too humid for a May evening. Alma looks meaningfully into Tom’s eyes. Tom takes Alma’s hands. “Everything is gonna be fine.” And Alma thinks: Whatever that means. She rings the doorbell. The door opens. Laura welcomes her with a cheerful face. She wears a scarf on her head. Behind her Julian appears.
“Welcome, welcome”, Laura says.
Alma kisses her on the mouth and Julian on both sides of the cheek. “Laura, Julian, this is Tom. Tom, here are Laura and Julian.”
“Hello, Laura. Hello, Julian.” Tom feels unsure. He approaches Laura as if he wants to kiss her, but Laura beats him to it and kisses him left and right on the check. Julian reaches a hand to him.
Laura eyes him, obviously taken by his charm. “Nice to meet you, Tom.”
“We have brought some wine.” Tom puts the bottle on the chest of drawers.
“Shall we open it right now?”, Julian asks and goes to the kitchen with Tom.
Laura and Alma walk into the living room. They look at each other for the first time.
“Superb, your Tom. Where have you met then?”
“How do you call this place? Fate? A coincidence? In a place like this.”
“Like this? That must be a place of sharp guys then.”
Alma looks at her silently and nods. “And? How did you … all of a sudden … come together?”
Laura also seems to be looking for the suitable phrase. “We were just chilling. In a region like this.”
Alma tries not to look at her contemptuously. “This region looks familiar to both of us, doesn’t it?”
Meanwhile, Tom stands next to Julian in the comfortable kitchen. Julian wants to open the wine, looking for the corkscrew through the drawers. Tom casts a fleeting glance at the fridge. It suddenly makes contact with him. “Hello.”
“Hey! It greets you, man? It has never greeted me.”
“No idea. Maybe I remind him of someone.” Tom stands demonstratively in front of the device and bows. “It’s my honour.”
Julian laughs and gives him a surprised look. “You’re a weird one. Suits Alma.”
“And how’s it going for you two?”
“Alight.”
“Everything all right with Laura?”
“If I knew what that meant?”
“If you need any help, I mean, I know my way around.”
“Julian gives him a meaningful look, making an effort to say something important, but then ostentatiously holds up the corkscrew instead. “Nah, leave it … I’ll manage.”
Laura calls them into the living room to the table. Strangely, Julian first wants to sit next to Alma, but then asks Laura to switch seat with him. Does he want to avoid eye contact with Tom? Or does he want to look at Alma? Or does he want Tom to be able to look at Laura? Not for a second has Tom had his eyes off Alma. He notices Laura’s interest in him, he hears Julian swallow, whose pulse is already high. It gets higher the longer Julian watches Laura. Tom looks at Alma, who has all her attention focused on the food, Laura stares non-stop at Tom, whose looks he does not return, and Julian stares at Laura, who ignores his gaze. Under the table, Tom touches Alma’s leg, who immediately looks up. Tom smiles at her, he needs to make contact with her, he wants to know that everything is alright. Albeit with a slight melancholy, Alma smiles back, Tom glances at Laura, sends a smile to her, who passes it on to Julian, who raises his glass and toasts to the round. “Here's to you, Tom!”
“Here’s to love!”, says he.
“Yeah, cool, to love, man.”
Their glasses clink together.
“A D6[^7] note, nice. That’s all the wine you can put in the glass.”
“Look at that, a man with a perfect pitch.” Julian takes a quick glance at Alma.
“What do you do, Tom?”, Laura asks.
Alma doesn’t even let Tom answer. “He is an artist. He paints.”
“Nice”, Julian says. Alma sense the pressure in Julian’s voice. His mouth is dry with envy, at least one adrenaline rush has hit him too.
“Julian is a musician, you know, a singer”, she says.
“Ah. How nice … “ Tom nods and has a genuine smile on his lips. “What do you sing?”
“You probably haven’t heard of it,” Julian says.
“I would very much like to know more about your music.”
Laura starts to laugh, maybe it's that sugary sweetness emanating from Tom that gets her all high.
Julian nods and shakes his head in turn. He can't do anything with the situation, wrings a brittle smile out of himself. “All right, I'll send you some links.”
Alma concentrates on the food. “Hmm, you have made your super-dressing again, Laura.”
“Tell us again, Tom, how have you two met?”, asks Laura.
Alma looks up and fixes her gaze on Tom, who returns it briefly. He smiles and reaches for her hand.
“I would say that there was no coincidence.”
Laura chews, sips from her glass and gazes silently into his eyes for a moment. “Oh no, Alma says the opposite.”
Tom smiles. “Sure. We don’t agree on that.”
“Let’s say, Jacqui set ups up”, Alma says quickly.
“I should have guessed. He was probably just waiting for that moment.” Julian raises an eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
Laura intervenes. “Not now, Julian.”
“One evening I was suddenly sitting opposite Alma, and she looked at me as if I had ... I had fallen from the sky,”Tom continues.
Alma hopes he won't get too lyrical.
“Supermatch. That Jacqui really knows you well.” Laura probably wants to impress Tom most of all. But he doesn't take his eyes off Alma.
“Thank you for the compliment ... Alma brought me out of a very, very dark time.”
Alma leans forward, smiles at him and puts a hand on his, trying to tell him that more information is unnecessary.
“It was similar for me,” says Julian. He has to burp.
“That flatters me again now.” Alma sends a sharp look to Julian.
After a brief moment of general embarrassment, made difficult by the spell Tom is casting on those present, Laura raises her glass. “Welcome, Tom, to our circle.”
They toast each other and drink.
Tom reaches for Alma's hands, his gaze again meeting the unnatural, sparkling-clear gleam in her doll eyes. He feels her pulse increase. For that moment she is completely with him again. But he also sees the desperation in her face, everywhere in her gestures. She is not behaving as usual. She drinks too hastily. He promised her not to be precocious and cheeky and to hold back on the poetry. Things are going well so far, no?
After the dinner the air has cooled down. They are in the garden. Tom is sitting on the lawn, Alma and Laura are already pretty drunk and dancing. Julian is play some chords on the guitar. Tom drums on his thighs. Laura sings crookedly, pulls Alma close once as if she wants to kiss her, but Alma covers it up with silliness. Afterwards they fall exhausted onto the lawn.
“Do you play music too, Tom? Do you want to play something?”
“No, I only sing for Alma, if at all.”
“What do you sing, if you do sing for her?”
He looks to her. “What she wants to hear.”
“I want to hear something too”, says Laura.
“We want to hear something too”, says Julian.
Tom understands that this situation is making Alma uncomfortable. “Well, I actually can’t sing at all.”
Laura begs. “Oh come on. Please. Alma, tell him to sing something. Julian can accompany him on the guitar. None of us can sing.”
Julian shakes his head in annoyance. “Thank you for that compliment.”
Alma’s expression becomes more serious. “If Tom doesn’t want to, he doesn’t have to.”
“But I have also sung, and I have zero voice”, says Laura.
“Come on, mate, don’t be a coward. I will feather this plucker here.” Julian plays some wild chords.
Tom raises his eyebrows and looks at Alma questioningly, who sighs.
“Alright. Babe, you …, sing ahead, if you like.”
“What should I sing?”
Alma empties her glass in one go and pours herself a refill.
“My favourite Cohen song. I'm your man. At least he can imitate that one really well.” She wants to hear the song that washes that unsalted taste from her throat. She wants to burn again.
“Couldn’t be easier. Well then.”
Julian improvises the song on the guitar.
Tom hesitates. “May I please play it myself?”
Julian gives him the guitar.
As each line of the song goes, Laura and Julian’s faces become more serious, their expressions stiffen into wonder and doubt. Because Tom doesn’t just sing well, he sounds like Cohen himself, and he plays so precisely and sensitively that Julian can only swallow his envy and his feeling of inferiority with a lot of wine. Laura looks deeply into Alma’s eyes. She returns the gaze unmoved.
Tom sings only the first verse, smiling, looking for feedback, but Julian is staring at the lawn and the two women are busy with themselves.
“I hope you liked it?”
No reaction.
“Not that you are surprised”, says Alma, “he has great talent imitating voices. Cohen is his masterpiece. Badass, isn’t it?” She wraps her arms around him and kisses him on the neck. “I like it when he sounds like Cohen.”
Tom watches her and every now and them casts a look at Laura and Julian, who is leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. He does not know if they have liked his performance at all.
Julian avoids his gaze, he hasn't even applauded, and Laura eyes him with a wry smile.
Alma jumps up. “Shall we play a game?”
“Do you need a higher intelligence for that?”, asks Julian.
“Maybe.”[^8]
“What should we want to play?”
“You know that new game, that everyone is playing at parties. What you cannot say, when standing on one leg, is something not true and clear. Tom and I play it a lot.”
“Never heard of it”, says Julian.
Alma doesn’t like the cynical undertone of that. Suddenly it strikes her how weak Julian is. How small he looks next to Tom, although he is taller. How selfish and weak! “It’s really easy. I will go first.” She stands up on one foot, wiggles a bit back and forth and says: “I knew at first sight that Tom and I belonged together.” She puts the leg down and sits on the grass. “Who wants to go next?”
“Me!” Laura stands up. She stands more calmly than Alma. “The partner of my dream this time has come out of my nightmare.”
Alma tries to ignore the remark, she squeezes Tom’s arm and holds him back. With a wink, she spurs Julian, who is currently drowning his remaining self-esteem in vodka. “Julian, now you.”
Julian’s facial expressions reveals that he is not super keen on it, but he stands on one of his legs nonetheless. The alcohol has destabilised him, he sways back and forth, tries to look deep into Laura’s eyes and sings. “If you want a lover, I’ll do anything you ask me to, and if you want another kind of –“ A strong dizziness throws him off track, he stumbles, bumps into the tree and falls to the ground. He picks himself up again and with a grin and a cool gesture to Laura, he sings: “I’m your man.” He sits down next to Alma on the grass.
Tom nods. “Wow. You are cool, man.”
Julian toasts to him. “It is your turn.”
Alma looks imploringly at Tom not to give such a hyper-perfect performance again.
He looks at Julian and Laura in turn and recalls Julian's performance. He stands on one leg, sways back and forth as Julian did, trying to be awkward but so obvious that it looks like mockery.
Laura looks at Alma fixatedly. She refuses to look at her.
Julian jumps up, stands in front of Alma, grins at her contemptuously, nods first and then shakes his head. “And I already thought I had made a mistake. But to be this cheap, Alma?” So blatantly self-centred. Fuck you, really!” He walks to the door, yanks it open. “And have fun with your new sex toy, Doctor Felser!” The door slams shut. Laura’s expression is serious. She looks for Alma’s gaze, who stares transfixed at the lawn.
Alma reaches Tom’s hand. “Let us go, Babe.”
He does not understand the dead silence that prevails between them the entire way home. He cannot get in touch with her when he wants to talk to her.
And if you want another kind of love, I’ll wear a mask for you …
“What in general should the sex with your partner be like?” Alma went through the list of options: Rough and short, rough and long, mixed, soft and short, soft and long. She then decided: “Mixed … No, delete.” She stared at the options for a while, finally she gave in: “Soft and long, just as I described it as ideal in my last book, that’s how sex with one who you are in an equal, serious relationship with should be. So, soft and long. Next.” “What religion should your partner belong to?” The list was long. From Abangan to Bahai, Freethinkers, Judaism with several subdivisions, Catholicism in all its varieties to Zaidites. All beliefs and ideology that mankind had hitherto produced so far. She shook her head and searched in vain: No indication. With the glass in the hand she stood in front of the mirror and looked at herself for a few moments, checking the circumference of her buttocks and belly, her bosom. She approached the mirror, her face very closed to the mirror. Her breath settled milky frog over her reflection. When she could finally see herself clearly again, she looked at her reflection deeply in the eyes for a few seconds with a furrowed brow and finally stuck her tongue out wide. Made some grimaces, made monkey noises, took a big gulp from the glass and big gulp from the glass and sat down in front of the screen again. She marked humanism.
The journey from the institute to home drags on. Laura has already called three times, and each time Alma has declined the call right away. “Please get in touch, sweetheart! I am worried.” The display says. She takes a detour to Jacqui.
“Alma, my love!” A Jacqui comes running up.
“Hello, can you call Jacqui out for a quick moment?” She wants to speak to the original, have a real conversation.
“That’s just me, Alma.”
She looks at him for a second, puzzled. “Oh God, I can’t tell you from them already.”
“They are doing a good job, aren’t they?”
She presses him against her. Have they become so like him or him like them. “Let’s get a Saudi.” She sits down at her regular table.
“The thing with Julian still bothers you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, it’s all over now. It’s all good.”
“I even thought that you were mad at me.” Jacqui reaches for her hand and squeezes it. He is visibly moved.
Alma looks at him indecisively, then whispers in his ear.
“The man the other day … is a Hubot.”
“Your eyes have never sparkled like that before.” Jacqui is not one of those self-righteous people who constantly have to distinguish right from wrong, he doesn’t ask about backgrounds, he believes in the right in happiness, in passion.
She grins, she knows that she can rely on him. She pours wine into the glasses, reaches for one, bumps once onto his and drinks it empty in one go, hoping to wash down this bitterness, this gloomy disgruntlement that has been on her palate since the evening at Laura’s. How she has missed this damned “Jacqui” in the last few weeks, all this emotional nonsense here, this patting, winking, and blaspheming, this whispering and confessing behind closed doors. Since the breakup with Julian she has given this gossip den a wide berth.
“So things are going well with you again? Bring him along.” He moves close to her ear. “Nobody has noticed, no?”
Alma avoids his gaze, pours herself another glass. “Laura and Julian.” She tells him about the dinner.
Jacqui hisses through the teeth, he knows that Laura can be quite a blabbermouth.
“Tell her that you are working on a study for a new book. Just tell her that you can’t publicise it yet. Tell her that the evening was just a test. Make her accomplice.”
“Then what? At some point the study has to end …”
“Dear, everything has to end at some point.”
“Even Tom?”
Jacqui makes the face he always makes when he’s trying to keep the hot from the sweet. He takes a gulp. “A lot happens sometime. Then everything can be different. The bright turn into dark, the ice melts, the upright fall tilted. Only now is important. You will see.”
Alma watches him for a moment with her head tilted to one side, flirts with the eyes, puts her hand to the left and right of his cheeks and presses a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Jacqui, have I told you that you are a wonderful canaille?”
He laughs and nods.
At that moment Laura calls again, this time he answers the call. From Laura’s voice she hears reproaches, which she has not yet made to her, probably because she finds it inconsiderate that Alma has left her with the piercing feeling of having spoken the truth. That’s not what a friend does. “You are right, sorry, I’ll explain everything, but not on the phone. Let’s meet in person, I am at Jacqui’s.”
A quarter later, Laura enters the restaurant. She seems distraught and agitated. A female Jacqui copy brings coffee and cake to the table.
“It’s on the house”, Jacqui says.
Laura throws herself onto the plush bench. She wears a whited knitted cap and an imposing amulet over her linen two-piece. “This Jacqui needs a haircut badly, she looks like an absent-minded professor. Almost reminds me of my father. And you should age your robots sometimes, sweetie, otherwise they will soon look like your kids.”
“Greetings to you, Laura. I like your charm. By the way, you still owe me a soul trip.”
Laura smiles at him, narrowing her eyes, “With you, I’d be afraid that you wouldn’t fully materialise afterwards.”
Jacqui seems amused by so much solicitude. “Is that how your shamanic metaphor for being lost sounds like?”
“No, that’s the sound of my worry, that you will enjoy it too much to find your way back to reality.”
Jacqui looks at her and nods. “How sweet of you. You are not usually so good with materialising. We are still eagerly waiting for your long-waited guidebook.” One of his waiters calls for him, he is needed. Jacqui rises, he kisses on Alma’s forehead, taps twice on the tabletop and turns to other guests.
At first Alma thinks that she will feel better once she has talked to Laura, but it rudely throws her into the lightness again since the conversation with Jacqui, since the opening of the Sauvignon blanc, as soon as she thinks of Tom.
“Now you are really shocking me”, Laura whispers, “Do you not know how dangerous these things are?”
Alma feels her resistance with every word of Laura’s. How imprudent she is! This mega-heroine begrudge any fun! Alma herself has lectured on the dangers of Hubot partners, but in terms of the development of people’s abilities to relate, and now she doesn’t want to hear about those “incidents with love robots”, she’s so contently drunk.
“You'll never get rid of him. They are totally fixated on you. They stalk you, rob you of your freedom. They get more and more involved in the relationship because they are programmed to do so. They are relationship extremists. Didn't you read the headline yesterday? Another suicide. They drive you crazy with their calculated ice-cold care, with sugary salvation they lure us. Because they're so easy, sweetie, you'll get hooked. I noticed it myself with your Tom. Like chocolate. That's how they make people rot.”
Alma looks at Laura as deeply and silently just like the other night, a white noise like a shield against these corrosive words. But she won’t and mustn’t and can’t say anything against them. “You think that I am stupid”, she whispers. “I am prepared for that. It is merely for a study.”
The look between them holds. “What? The whole thing isn’t real?”
“No, are you silly? Just a test for my new guidebook. No one can know about this, not even Tom. Everything has to be real. And Julian has to shut up about it, too.”
Laura leans back. “Okay. I understand.” She nods, relieved. Also now she knows that Alma is not simply having some naïve fun, but is actually “suffering” and “deprived”, and that connects women in a rather special way. She orders another wine straight away. Her relief doesn’t last long, however. When one of the Jacquis brings the wine, breaths a gentle kiss on her shoulder and strokes her neck briefly with his hand, she bursts into tears.
Alma takes her hands and squeezes them, asking what is wrong.
“It was two hours after you’d left when Julian came into my bedroom, even though I told him I was feeling sick. He was drunk as a skunk. He tore my blouse off and grabbed and bit me everywhere without asking my permission. He went completely nuts. That’s how close I came to being raped.” Her gesture is unambiguous.
“Have you defended yourself?”
“Yes, of course, I then pushed him away and threw him out.”
“How long did you let him do it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, did you fight him back immediately or wait a few minutes first? Because you said that he bit you all over, which would take a few minutes.”
“Why do you want to live with a Hubot?” Alma stared into the room, she was already quite drunk and struggling to keep her composure. She said: “Because I don’t want to be alone.” She pushed the swivel chair in front of the screen and sat down. “No, delete. Because I want to be loved.” She looked silently for a moment at the floor. “Delete. Because I can't live without love. Next.” “Are you aware that your Hubot partner will develop a personality of their own by imitating the behaviour in their environment?” “Yes. Next.” “Are you aware that hubs have a right to bodily integrity and are subject to the same fundamental rights as every human being, may also and only be switched off under strictly defined conditions and only with sufficient justification and after review by an arbitration tribunal?” “Much aware, yes. Next.” “Are you aware that with Hubots you are dealing with machine technology and that the legislator has set an alcohol limit of 0.5/L[^9] for handling this technology?” “She paused and raised her eyebrows. “Yes, sure. You killjoys. Next.” “Are you aware that your Hubot partner is connected to the internet, thus possess all knowledge there and that this knowledge may only be used for the benefit of humanity?” “Yes. Next.” “Are you aware of the impact that antisocial and inhumane behaviour has on the Hubot’s personality development and the threat it can pose to humanity?” “Yes. Next.”
When Alma enters the flat in the middle of the night, drunk but infected with Laura’s doubts, Tom welcomes her with a glass of wine. “You are late”, he says and kisses her gently on the upper lip.
“I made an impromptu appointment with Laura. She needed my advice.” Alma wants to take the glass.
But Tom withdraws it from her. “The ethanol content in your breath is too high, you have already drunk too much.”
“What?”
He goes into the kitchen and pours the wine into the basin, fills the glass with tap water and holds it to her.
“I will still always decide for my myself how much I can tolerate.” She gruffly takes the glass of water from his hand and empties it in one go, noticing out of the corner of her eye that the table is set and dinner is ready, that he has made countless drawings of her and printed out just as many articles on parenting for her and, judging by the markings, has apparently also read them. “You’ve done a lot, I see.”
Tom smiles, glad that she seems more sober. He opens his arms and wants to hold her against him, just as usual.
Alma goes to the tap, fills the glass, sips from it, leans against the sink and watches him. “Maybe you should let yourself down a bi, too, Babe. You don’t have to play Mr Perfect here all the time.”
Tom stands still, keeps his arms open and looks at her in the eyes, as passionately as he can. He does not understand why she doesn’t hug hum, she needs this physical contact after such an exhausting day, he knows that a hug is good for her hormone levels and for her blood pressure. He suspects that he has done something wrong. “I’ll be happy to have another wine with you after dinner.” He spreads his arms even wider and sends a smile her way.
Alma has to consider Laura’s words. Why is he so obsessive with this embrace? Isn’t this perhaps a power play, this pseudo-protectiveness? Is he forcing a hug on her so that he can prove his dominance? Until now everything is perfect, isn’t it? Their love was so innocent. Laura’s insinuations burn like acid in her throat. Alma pours the rest of the water behind her, pours herself some wine and sits down at the table. “I don’t feel like a hug right now, sorry Babe. Let us eat something.”
Tom lowers his arms and stares at her. He cannot resolve his confusion.
Alma watches him out of the corner of her eye, the adrenalin makes her heart race, she can't bear this calculating look, she doesn't want to return it under any circumstances, doesn't want to provoke him. Where does this fear come from all of a sudden? Is that what Laura meant earlier? He could come to the conclusion that she could be a danger to him and want to destroy her. That's what “these things” have in common with real men, she said, as soon as you are no longer easy, they plan your destruction. Although she finds such bashing “typical Laura”, she is nevertheless just realising how reckless she was and the danger she is in right now. But Alma tells herself that she just has to show him that she is in control of the situation and doesn’t have to rely on him. Right now she is trying to remember where she has saved the contract and the operating instructions. Perhaps Tom has deleted them or scrambled them unreadable for her. Her stomach is churning, but she packs her plate full of potatoes and vegetables. “Come, sit down.” She says and spears a piece of broccoli with the fork.
Tom can’t seem to resolve his confusion. He goes though his reaction over the last few days and analyses the interactions to understand where he has gone wrong so he can fix it. All afternoon he has been waiting for that embrace, for her smell, for her warmth, for the moment when he can explore her hormone levels and determine how she is doing and that all is well. His calculations are running at full speed, he is sweating, her dismissive attitude, her coldness, the refused eye contact are burning in his body. “What’s going on?”
“What is supposed to going on, Babe?”
“You seem tense. I am worried.”
“Nonsense, I am just hungry. Everything is fine… Come sit with me.”
“Give me a hug then. Just a quick one.”
Again, she thinks of "twitchy care", but still gets up, stands in front of him and spreads her arms. She doesn't smile, still chews and looks at him expectantly.
Tom buries his nose in her hair and presses her against him. They keep that for a few seconds. He notices that her pulse isn’t running as smoothly as usual; it beats hard, as if driven forward in a goose step. Her sweat smells more acidic, various scents have entangled in her hair, only one of them is familiar, he can smell Laura’s shamanic incense. “I’m worried about you.”
Alma releases her from the embrace. “Don’t you worry, it’s okay, let’s eat.”
"I love you," Tom waits for her response; he needs her approval to ensure their connection is okay and intact, so he knows he's behaving correctly.
"I love you too," that came more casually. His gaze sticks to her like a film on her body. It's only after she's eaten a whole potato that she responds, "Are you doing research on parenting?"
"I just wanted to be prepared in case you want children."
Alma can't recall giving any indication of that. She has no desire to think about it, let alone talk about it.
"Are you sure everything is okay? Are you really feeling well? I'm really worried. Should we see a doctor -"
"I'm fine!" Alma downs her water. "I'm actually doing damn well!" She stands up. "So, Mr. Perfect! Alma is doing splendidly and excellently. She's not the same every day like you. She's not a Superman machine like you, needing only to be recharged and simulating feelings. She's a real human. With real feelings! Something special." Alma wanted to laugh, to hurt him, but she starts crying instead. She's just worn out. She can't help it; she's too drunk for that.
Tom watches her for a moment, as she struggles with tears, tries to laugh, constantly fixes her mascara, presses her lips together, blows her nose while looking at herself in the mirror, making sure her face isn't red, shakes her hair and sighs. Everything he knows about people, he knows from observing them, and he actually knows very little. He has processed enormous amount of data that people have collected about themselves. But it's not clear from that who they are. He knows what he's supposed to be. He's supposed to be a human robot.
[^1]: Originally written in English; lyrics from I’m Your Man, by Leonard Cohen [^2]: In German, “Mann“ is the word for both “man” and “husband”. ”Ich bin dein Mann” could also mean “I am your husband”. [^3]: One could also say “cheesy” in English in place of the German word “kitschige”. [^4]: Wahnsinnstyp, can mean both the “crazy type” or the “awesome type”. [^5]: The original paragraph here indeed coincides with the first paragraph on Wikipedia, seen on 16 April, 2023. [^6]: “Freund order Freundin” was originally used here, to indicate the male or female friend. [^7]: Musical note D in the third octave. [^8]: “Mann vielleicht.” [^9]: Same as the Blood Alcohol Content (BAC) Drinking Driving Limits across Europe.