Love Rarefied

Lovers seek out certain qualities in those who receive their love. Many of these criteria have the biology of reproduction as their origin – the appearance of good health, indication of sexual interest, manifold small markers of virility or fecundity. But while he is fully aware of these discreet little tells – Charlie Holloway’s waist, Janek’s shoulders – in a manner organic humans are not, reproduction is not the sum of human romantic affection, merely its distant aim. Meredith Vickers doesn’t merely dream of scarlet cheeks and full breasts and a womb, she dreams of a woman and the company that will soon be her own. Love is merely one of the many sporting endeavors Holloway dreams of. The geologist dreams of stones; the botanist of his studies and of fallen friends, who are only diluted lovers anyway. In his dreams, Peter Weyland loves no one and no thing but himself.

Physical beauty and intellectual stimulation are likewise desirable qualities. One might love someone for a moment of kindness, even if the individual has been consistently cruel to them. Love might grow between two well-matched intellects. Admiration might swell into desire, or romantic love might spring from the same source as an earlier friendship, a combination of similar interests, goals, and ideas. A human might love someone they knew to be a fool, hostile, an unfit mate, or unattainable. He understands these passions, but will not experience them. David has received a thorough education regarding love, in every shade from chaste selflessness to destructive erotic frenzy, and even knows how to counterfeit it briefly. He has two dozen possible tone patterns for the phrase “I love you”, from filial to blackly carnal. But he is forever a student; he observes.

David’s existence is a performance; he does not regret that this is true. His heart will never skip a beat, his pupils will never dilate to drink in his lover’s beauty, his flesh will never flush with ardor or embarrassment. A warm hand on his genitalia will do no more to hasten his heartbeat or stir the lazy circulation of his artificial circulatory system than a hand exerting the same stimulus on his forearm, though he has protocols for dealing with those who would touch him. But his hands itch to touch and to understand.

Eli Shaw lies beneath the plexiglass shield, in his undergarments. David has memorized every freckle.

Eli Shaw is a boy of nine, watching a funeral procession pass his father and inquiring after paradise. Eli Shaw is not permitted into the field hospital where his father is dying. His days and years are marked out in pain – his studies in grief, his relationships marked in stumbling eagerness, leading to, that most strange of phrases, a broken heart. Every instance of pain has resulted from an instance of love.

Aesthetically, he has some appeal. Physically, he is pleasant, though as irregular as most humans – small and fair, with ruddy cheeks, with protruding knees and slight but pleasing asymmetry to his face. David knows his voice – can imitate it rather well, in fact – and his interests are not entirely unlike David’s own. He is a gentle man, naive, but brave. Even his dreams are intellectually stimulating – which is more than can be said for the others who dream exclusively of their fields. He is no Lawrence, no complete story to be enjoyed again and again to scrutinize every minute shade, he is a living man, capable of advancement and growth. (David feels, in comparison, extremely sterile.) In his heart there is something David cannot have access to. Not a puzzle, something to be put together and then broken apart again, but a concept to be drawn out into its fascinating fullness. In his heart there is some unquenchable optimism, some unfamiliar hope.

If David felt love, he believes that he could love this man easily. As it is, he interests him.