Mr. Roger and I have been acquainted for almost five years. A fine gentleman at his prime forties, Roger was a sponsor of the company I used to work with.

There are many things that Roger doesn’t like. The man avoided public shows of favor like a plague. Only when receiving the best of offerings does he respond with a turn of his nose to the gifts, and a smile to the givers standing at his sides.

But don’t be put off by his seeming detachment. There are certain things that attract him like bee to nectar. For instance, Roger wasn’t an audience of theatre, but he came regularly to see me. He loved giving out bouquets. More specifically, he loved giving bouquets to intimate individuals, such as myself—his fiancée, and him my husband-to-be!

The life we were building was much desired. Yet some discoveries made after our botched trial to surpass mortality had steered us to a different destiny.

It began with Roger’s health report last year. Never had I seen him in such affliction. He spoke little these days, and the fault is on me for pushing him too far, because that’s how we fought. He cut my arm with a broken vase. It was an accident. It also left a soft scar.

Afterwards Roger returned to our bedroom and apologized with a bouquet of roses. I slapped it aside with my good arm and started crying at the shattered petals. Before I knew, he was wiping my face, soothing me to a tranquil serenity. Then he pulled out the documents from the cabinet beside our bed. They were his health reports. He asked me if I knew what the numbers meant, and I nodded.

“I’m getting old,” he explained anyway, “Deteriorating. Like everyone else.” He thumbed away a trickling tear from my cheek, “Must be good to stay like this forever.”

His gaze lingered over my body. Along with it came the horror of time, the inevitable fall of all great lives under the inescapable path of decay. That night, he passed on the knowledge and pulled me from blessed oblivion.

When Dr. Sherman offered his new insights to counter this destined catastrophe, I would accompany Roger through the trial as well. It caught Sherman by surprise that a healthy young woman would be troubled by the loss of youth. So I told him we ought to start planning out for ourselves and the future.

“Isn’t a few decades more than enough to plan with?” The subtle rise of Sherman’s brows was followed by a dry chuckle.

It didn’t thwart my will to attempt the trial. Roger had put down a generous sum to Sherman’s project. Therefore, my participation was backed by full support.

Yet Sherman’s words came back that night while we were in bed. Roger was holding me and rubbing my shoulder.

“What’s the matter, starling?”

Oh dear Roger, I thought, how can I possibly tell you what’s in my mind? That I’m scared of the trial? That Sherman’s words haunted me from the day and would not leave me in the solitude of night.

“It is not the trial that you are afraid of,” he observed, “You are afraid of the unknown. It is something most people are afraid of, yes. So you shouldn’t worry your pretty head too much.”

I exhaled. It did nothing to ease the weight inside me.

He pulled me closer until we were only a breath away. “You don’t have to. You know.” Then he took my hand and kissed the knuckles as if each was a rare gem. He only paused when he came upon the soft scar. “My poor, poor starling…” I could not make out his expression as he lowered his head.

“I am so sorry.”

During the following months, we began to prepare for the trial. In short, it was a miserable process that I am not allowed to share in detail because they belong to Dr. Sherman and Roger (of course). And what good will knowing it do to a person like you anyway? You are no scientist (If you are, forget I said it. I just can’t tell you).

How haughty and insolent a person you must think of me now.  I apologize for that. God knows I wasn’t always so spiteful. The thing is: I miss Roger. Ever since the incident, he’s been seeing Sherman more often than he stays at home. I think at some point he even thought about cancelling our engagement. He didn’t mean for me to hear it, and he was furious then. Whether they were only rage or not, it had destroyed me all the same.

Oh! The click of locks and footsteps could only be Roger. From the sound of it, he was walking toward the bathroom where I was occupying.

I hit the tablet screen to stop the music. The commotion caused water to splash out from the tub.

The bathroom door creaked and revealed Roger, who had become thinner than I remembered. He almost slipped on the water and leveled himself on the tub. Then suddenly he cried out and fell backwards into a puddle.

“Will you stop doing that!” he chest rose and fell rapidly beneath pale cotton.

“I’m sorry.”

“Where the hell is your body?”

“I left it in the bedroom,” (the pain of sleeping in an empty bed.)

“Put it back right now.”

“I can’t,” I wept. The white strand curled inwards to wipe a tear from my cheek. Doing so made my head slide below the water. I submerged with a gasp. More coughing and splashing sent water over the rim, and Roger’s expression darkened as he took in my humiliation.

“Stop lying to me and get your head back on that body,” he snapped, rising to his feet. “I can’t—I can’t…” he murmured half to himself. The door thudded after him. He was gone

I churned bitterly as my tears dripped into the salt bath. I ducked my head beneath the water and exhaled a trail of bubbles. A while later, the door creaked open. The decapitated form entered, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, and moved with the surreal grace of a humanoid. The clone was customized by Roger after the incident. It should resemble my body (which I believe was still kept in storage somewhere) in every way; its limbs were long, and the tone of the skin was perfectly tanned.

It reached down into the tub and cupped me from the water.

The hands brought me before the mirror. I regarded the face of the young woman I knew. My eyes and tender lips, soft brown hair brushing past the holding hands, all together, they are ideal. The hands raised higher. One reached for the white strand jutting beneath me and carefully placed it into the hollow of its neck. My strand slipped in and recoiled at the sudden stimulation of ice-cold mechanics before they expanded and enveloped the strand with uncomfortable precision.

I was sealed over the top with a click. The artificial code shimmered once and dissipated. My legs were faint and I must level myself over the sink. I tested the fingers. They curled then uncurled. It was good enough and felt like a body in flesh.

I can’t wait to take it off again.

I found Roger sitting in the living room. The television played a noisy show he wasn’t paying attention to. I stood beside him and waited for the familiar address (“Hey, starling”, “How’s your week alone, my dear?”, “Sorry for yelling at you”). He only glanced at the shore beyond our window.

“May I sit down?”

He did not respond. So I sat down beside him, close enough that our shoulders brushed together. If he wouldn’t talk to me when I was expressing care, the least he could do is to tell me to go away. I would do that. I absolutely would.

He exhaled, then reclined against the cushions in brooding silence.

“I missed you,” I murmured, “I’ve also been meaning to tell you that they forgot my scar.”

He gave me a puzzled look. It was the first time that I’ve seen him without a frown in a long time.

I rolled up my sleeves and had him examine the smooth inside of the arm.

“You see?” I said. His hold was warm against the unblemished skin. “It’s all smoothed out now, but it wasn’t supposed to be like that. They forgot to add the scar—that scar you gave me when we fought.”

The crease between his brows grew deeper. He politely pushed back the arm and sounds very tired, “I told them to leave it out. I thought you’d look better without it.”

“But it reminds me of you.”

His knuckles cracked once.

“In a good way! God, it reminds me of you when you were by my side that night to reconcile.” I buried my face in both hands and shuddered. I can make such a mess with words at times.

His hand found mine. The words died in my throat as he gently pulled my hands away. I must have looked awful. My eyes were swollen, and my upper lip was jutting out in a weird way when he leaned close.

That afternoon we trudged along the beach in our swimwear. The sun torched high above, while the sand beneath gleamed and sparkled. We were holding hands again, gathering shells that got washed on the shore and spreading a towel under the huge yellow umbrella.

“What does it feel like?” he leaned on one elbow to look at me, “You know. Living like this now.”

I offered a smile with the sun in my eyes, “It feels like what it seems. I’m basically a shellfish now.”

He looked away and slowly curled to the other side of the towel. I didn’t give him the chance to leave again, so I pressed against his back and studied the small metallic attachment on the scruff of his neck.

“You know you can’t avoid this forever, right?”

“No?”

“I don’t think you should.”

“Well,” he sat up and touched the metal, “This stabilizer is designed to halt any potential damage that might result from the trial. From the quality of Sherman’s handiwork, I don’t think this one will break in any considerable years.” He dragged a brief glance over me, then a long one over the body. He continued, “Despite the incidents we had…It is ultimately a success. Once we fully attach this body to you, permanently, we will call in the press. Won’t you like that, starling?”

I shook my head, “It’s impossible.”

“Nonsense. Everything is possible.”

To that, I laughed, “You expect me to live in a droid forever while you barely keep your head up with a sheer piece of metal?” I stood and trudged slowly toward the sea. “I don’t want to be a machine forever.”

“But you’re not,” his voice caught the edge of irritation as he pushed himself up, “Every cell on that surface is the same as any human tissue embodies…”

I reached the wet mushy sand and the toes wriggled into them, “Amazing.” I heard myself whispering into a warm breeze, “How little this body feels.”

“Roger, I’m going to swim.”

I turned and saw him storming across the beach, sending white sands bursting around his feet. I wonder if he ever knew he had the meanest scowl, or the way he seemed like a stranger when rage shimmered behind his eyes.

“You can’t swim.” Just as he extended his arm to grab me, I darted away, laughing, and ran deeper into the waves.

“Come back!” He chased after me along the shore. A tide came up and swallowed our feet. It used to tickle where it touched. Now it felt cold, just foam washing up and retreating…washing up and retreating…

He tackled me to the sand, breathless and unable to suppress the rise at the corners of his mouth. He loves victories. I forgot to mention that, didn’t I?

“I told you, you can’t swim, starling,” he reached down and adjusted my neck. Click. “There, better?”

I turned my head this way and that. It was alright, alright.

“Do you know why this body is a machine?” I asked Roger. His mouth moved, but I wanted him to listen. “There are mechanics inside it. Do you know that? Mechanics that immobilize my neural strand so I can do whatever I’m doing now.”

“Does it feel bad?” his eyes knitted with concern.

“No. It feels fine,” I pushed him once, and he let go reluctantly. “Salt water invigorates me now. It’s not the first time I’ve been here, you know. I was ashamed, Roger. I was so ashamed. The funniest thing is, I don’t hate it anymore.”

He screamed and leapt into the water.

I laughed at his clumsiness and dove further away. How come I never realized how slow he was in water? His arms arched beautifully into the sea. His eyes were frantic as he saw the body floating before him. When he grabbed for the tender arms and drew it close against his chest, he realized he was clutching a discarded shell: warm, heartless, and utterly unblemished. He must have peered into the void and seen the wires on the other end.