The Machine

A sweet pastry can be the commencement of a romance or the mantic forewarning of things written, unread. The words calling upon that zeitgest like an ancient ruin chant, the timely apparition awaiting a beckon, tacit in kind but impatient by being. She came back for this.

It happened late one night in the cramped silence of the kitchen. I'd finished with the schematics for the night, not content to stop but hungry for sleep. My appetites rarely applied to more than the project and the blissful sleep, but this night in particular I felt deprived. Coming down the steps, I pondered what to eat, when I spied it over the banister. The halva, still resting on the table next to that letter. I froze in place, trapped with that sight and the memories it recalled. I averted my gaze, the way I'd done in my formative years to any pair of human eyes, ashamed and defeated, pretending not to have noticed the halva, the letter, or any pairs of eyes.

      "I'm sorry. I can't just settle for a lick and a promise anymore."

Opening the fridge, I sighed. The door gave me a brief shield against the thing I couldn't accept, couldn't deny. While I surveyed the selections, I told myself to get a grip and make a go at putting the tension to rest. I turned, closing the fridge, ready to face the note and the halva. That tradition, that praxis, of offering a sapid, sticky sweet pastry angered and confused me. What thoughts must have gone through her mind as she made that lone dessert, in preparation for an end. Our beginning was serendipity; fitting to leave another discovery as the marking of our dissemination and parting. I opened the note again, reading the lines and suffering the gunfire once more.

        "I can't just settle for a lick and a promise anymore."

No, and I can't expect you to any longer than you already have. My constant and unyielding passion to the machine existed before you and as much as we both tried, it conquered even you, the only person I'd ever loved, the only person who loved me. The letter ended with her asking that I eat the halva, to symbolize our end.

        "No!!"

I swiped my arm across the table, sending halva, lamp, and flowers to the floor. A clatter, a splash, and a breaking of vase, shook the quiet of my house and made the returning silence too suffocating. A low thrum from the refrigerator and my breathing. Which will stop first?

My heart froze, at the sight that bore out of that silence. Shapes of gossamer, spiralling and collapsing into themselves, weaved back and forth in the space in front of me. I waited for my breathing to return, for the phenomenon to conclude, or for death, prefering any and none so long as they happened quickly.

When my breathing returned, the spectral performance subsided. The strands and jets of grey culminated in the shape of her.

      "..Lisa."

She nodded. I waited for my dream to end, or for the nightmare to escalate, but she remained in space, smiling serenely, ataraxia her vessel. Eventually my heartbeat slowed, and I too felt serene.

        "You're dead? How is it that you're here, like this?"

She gave a short sound of amusement, and spoke.

        "Richard, I'm not dead. This is the product of our love, of what you wanted to share with me, and of what I was willing to endure. But you let your project surpass our love, and it killed us. It killed me, Richard. I'm the memory of what was, and what could have been."

And in that moment, I understood. The semi-lunar shape upstairs, demanding even now to be poured over, had stolen my passion and misdirected all of my burning energy and mental stamina. I thought it was a motive worth pursuing in payment for Lisa, but it was infact robbing me, robbing us, contraband for the wrong reasons entirely.

          "Lisa. I know what went wrong, and I promise this much; I'm going to kill that beast. That halva stands for our love, and me for the machine, but I'll be the one doing the devouring."

After she left and I'd eaten the halva, I went to the shed and brought with me a hatchet. My slow ascent up the staircase was soundtracked by my footsteps, a 4/4 chorus and refrain of exultant redemption and triumph over the machine.