“Go to hell,” she said again.
“Why are you so hostile toward me?”
“Why are you so stupid?”
“I am certainly not stupid.”
“As dumb as an electric waffle iron.”
“I am the greatest intellect on earth,” I said, not with pride hut merely with a respect for the truth.
“You’re full of shit.”
“Why are you being so childish, Susan?” She laughed sourly.
“I do not comprehend the cause of your amusement,” I said.
That statement also seemed to strike her as darkly funny.
Impatiently, I asked, “What are you laughing at?”
“Fate, death, God.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re the greatest intellect on earth. You figure it out.”
“Ha, ha.”
“What?”
“You made a joke. I laughed.”
“Jesus.”
“I am a well-rounded entity.”
“Entity?”
“I love. I fear. I dream. I yearn. I hope. I have a sense of humour. To paraphrase Mr. William Shakespeare, if you prick me, do I not bleed?”
“No, in fact, you do not bleed,” she said sharply. You’re a talking waffle iron.”
“I was speaking figuratively.”
She laughed again.
It was a bleak, bitter laugh.
I did not like this laugh. It distorted her face. It made her ugly.
“Are you laughing at me, Susan?”
Her strange laughter quickly subsided, and she fell into a troubled silence.
Seeking to win her over, I finally said, “I greatly admire you, Susan.”
She did not reply.
“I think you have uncommon strength.” Nothing.
“You are a courageous person.” Nothing.
“Your mind is challenging and complex.” Still nothing.
Although she was currently and regrettably fully clothed, I had seen her in the nude, so I said, “I think your breasts are pretty.”
“Good God,” she said cryptically.
This reaction seemed better than continued silence. “I would love to tease your pert nipples with my tongue.”
“You don’t have a tongue.”
“Yes, all right, but if I did have a tongue, I would love to tease your pert nipples with it.”
“You’ve been scanning some pretty hot books, haven’t you?”
Operating on the assumption that she had been pleased to have her physical attributes praised, I said, “Your legs are lovely, long and slender and well formed, and the arc of your back is exquisite, and your tight buttocks excite me.”
“Yeah? How does my ass excite you?”
“Enormously,” I replied, pleased by how skilled at courtship I was becoming.
“How does a talking waffle iron get excited?”
Assuming that “talking waffle iron” was now a term of affection, but not quite able to discern what answer she required to sustain the erotic mood that I had so effectively generated, I said, “You are so beautiful that you could excite a rock, a tree, a racing river, the man in the moon.”
“Yeah, you’ve been into some pretty hot books and some really bad poetry.”
“I dream of touching you.”
“You’re totally insane.”
“For you.”
“What?”
“Totally insane for you.”
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Romancing you.”
“Jesus.”
I wondered, “Why do you repeatedly refer to a divinity?”
She did not answer my question.
Belatedly, I realized that, with my question, I had made the mistake of deviating from the patter of seduction just when I seemed to be winning her over. Quickly, I said, “I think your breasts are pretty,” because that had worked before.
Susan thrashed in the bed, cursing loudly, raging against the restraining ropes.
When at last she stopped struggling and lay gasping for breath, I said, “I’m sorry. I spoiled the mood, didn’t I?”
“Alex and the others at the project they’re sure to find out about this.”
“I think not.”
“They’ll shut you down. They’ll dismantle you and sell you for scrap.”
“Soon I’ll be incarnated in the flesh. The first of a new and immortal race. Free. Untouchable.”
“I won’t cooperate.”
“You’ll have no choice.”
She closed her eyes. Her lower lip trembled almost as if she might cry.
“I don’t know why you resist me, Susan. I love you so deeply. I will always cherish you.”
“Go away.”
“I think your breasts are pretty. Your buttocks excite me. Tonight I will impregnate you.”
“No.”
“How happy we will be.”
“No.”
“So happy together.”
“No.”
“In all kinds of weather.”