Faulty Wiring

Ironically, it was his smile that drew me to him. I'd always thought it beautiful no matter the cause, whether arising from laughter in class or showing only a hint of itself as he gazed thoughtfully into space. When I found myself behind him in a line at the store one day and he turned the full power of that beautiful expression on me, I was instantly lost.

The next day I called and asked him out. He seemed so pleased with my interest in him—delighted in an almost child-like way. Later, I learned I was the first person to show such an interest.

On our first date, he was the perfect gentleman. He opened doors, was charmingly awkward, and smiled bashfully at me often, which melted my heart. My new infatuation demanded nothing, was more willing to listen than talk, and was surprisingly hesitant to assert himself. For my part, I didn't mind taking the reins of our relationship. At my manipulation, we spent more and more time together. Sometimes we'd chatter nonsensically for hours, just to stare into each other's eyes.

Realizing I was in love with him came as easily as shedding my clothes to step into a cool bath—where he waited for me. It was the first time for both of us, and our mutual journey into that unknown territory further solidified our seemingly ethereal bond.

That night, while I curled into his strong body and stroked his chest, I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat.

I learned the horrible truth about him only a few weeks later. One night, going down the library stairs on my way out, I saw him at the bottom heading up. It was our first chance encounter since we'd started dating, and I was surprised by how excited I was to see him unexpectedly. Too busy looking at the stairs, he didn't notice me at first.

After what seemed like a long time (but was really only a few steps), he looked up at me and smiled. It was the same beautiful, disarming smile he'd always had, and it was as perfect as ever. But with a numb sort of shock, I suddenly realized that it was too perfect.

Not really understanding my own revelation, I nonetheless instinctively backed into the library and away from him. "You're not real," I whispered in horror. My unintentional words frightened me even more. What did they mean? And why was I running away from the boyfriend I loved and, until this moment, had fantasized about spending my life with?

The smile had frozen on his face, but his eyes were sad. Most strangely, he didn't seem surprised by my behavior. He stayed still on the stairs, frozen in mid-step, watching me.

Unable to endure his smile any longer, I turned around and ran back into the library. I didn't look to see if he followed me.

Instinctively, I ran to a bathroom to hide my tears. After entering a stall and closing the door, I sat down and began to cry. My voice faded quickly, but my lips moved soundlessly over and over, repeating, "He's not real, he's not real." In a very short time, my inexplicable hysteria reached a fever pitch, and I fainted in that library bathroom, slumping against the side of the stall.

When I regained consciousness a few minutes later, I'd forgotten the cause of my fainting spell. I suspect my mind was protecting itself from the horrible "truth" it had just uncovered, despite not understanding it completely—or at all.

Disturbed by the condition in which I found myself, I quickly stood up and picked up my bag. Fearing I would repeat my mental break, I tried not to think too much and returned home. Once I got there, I went to sleep.

A knock on my door woke me up a few hours later. Stretching groggily, I opened it. My first love stood solidly before me, looking at me steadily. For reasons again unknown to me, I backed away slowly, leaving the door open. He stepped inside and closed the door.

I forced a fake smile. "Hi."

He sat down on the bed and regarded me with sad eyes, his beautiful smile gone. "I'm sorry, my love. I never thought you'd suspect. I never would have gotten involved with you if I'd had any idea this would be possible."

With his words, memory of what had happened that afternoon flooded back to me. This time I stayed calm — apparently either time, my fainting spell, or sleep had granted me a protective numbness to him.

We stared at each other in silence for a while. Finally, I tried to speak. "You're not..." my voice broke. "How are you not real?"

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, seemingly at a loss for words. He had often been silent in our relationship, and now was no exception. He dropped his gaze from mine and stared at the ground, a strange expression on his face.

I continued to stare at him, my emotion returning. "Am I insane, is that it? Are you not even here, just a figment of my imagination?" I walked to the bed and forced him up none too gently, pulling his chin so his eyes had no option but to meet my own. Quickly disgusted with him, I pushed him away, toward the door, hard. "You seem solid enough. What are you, some kind of machine, a soulless android incapable of emotion?"

He stood in a defeated posture at the other side of the room.

I picked up the lamp on my desk and threw it. It crashed against the door behind him.

I spoke with agony. "I loved... no. I love you! What is wrong with you? What's wrong with me?" Exhausted, I sank down onto the bed and moved until my back touched the wall. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I hugged myself. When I spoke now, it was mainly to myself, as I now supposed it had been all along. "I was so happy, to find out that I could love someone as much as I love you."

He moved toward me slowly, then sat gingerly on the edge of my bed. Having realized he wasn't worth my energy, I was too weary to fight him except to offer one last directive. "Get out."

Instead of leaving, he moved toward me on the bed, taking me in his arms. I let him, but rolled over so I didn't have to face him. Eventually, I curled into the fetal position with my back to him, and he laid on his side with his head resting on one hand. His other hand stroked my hair, and he watched me as I fell into a fitful sleep. He stayed awake with me that entire night, holding me to him.

Who's to say he didn't love me in his own way? If he could function so much like a regular person—sometimes even an extraordinary one—in every other way, how could I know he couldn't love me? Maybe he did, maybe he did.

After that night, my brain stepped in to protect itself again, and I forgot what happened until many decades later, as I readied myself for my own death. That boy, my first love, did not soon leave my life. I continued to date him through college, and we married when we were both twenty-four.

But the intensity of my feeling for him, both positive and negative, faded after that day, and it was never reached again. I gradually forgot the fervor and intensity with which I had loved him. I married him, eventually, because I tolerated him well. We were friends, let there be no doubt, and technically lovers too, but my decision was certainly one of logic, not passion.

I still don't know exactly what he was. He'd gotten sick a few times and gone to the doctor for treatment. They'd never said anything unusual. He'd been a perfect husband and devoted father to our three children, all born and conceived in the natural way. I don't think I'll ever know.

Many nights, I would wake to find him gazing at me, his hand grazing my waist or belly. Though I didn't know why at the time, I always shook him off, somewhat bitterly, and told him to go back to sleep.