How Do Mechs Love?

A short story I wrote a year ago during a hot August night in a UCI dorm room.

“All I can remember of her is she used to say, ‘fruit is dying’. She said it repeatedly, like it meant something to me. Now it is all I can think about… I still have no idea what she meant.” He thinks lying on his mattress as he stares at the stains on the wall noting the different colors. “Brown, yellow, green, brown again, a lightish yellow-canary I think, blue, and brown again,” he says to himself. Bored of looking at the mosaic of stains he flips over and realizes that his paint is peeling. The wall use to be eggshell white, at some point, through the years of neglect it now resembles an Easter egg dipped in all the colors. He wipes the sweat forming on his forehead and sighs, “Do I go see a movie where they have central air or do I eat until pay day?” He pushes himself up from the mattress, it protesting his leaving, but with enough force separates his soaked undershirt from the sheets. 

He walks over to his left wall and glances at the calendar he got free when he opened his checking account. He remembers the card he received as well, it said, “Welcome to the Winning Team”, he laughed and shoved it in his pocket. Then he remembers that he owes them twenty-five dollars for over drafting when he purchased a packet of gum last week. He laughs, “Winning Team, fuckin’ a.” He sees the giant red circle or rather circles on Saturday, “pay day…” “Fuck it, I’ll just eat at someone’s house for the next few days” he thinks and throws his soggy shirt on the floor.

He pushes the handle to the “H”. He bends to test the water, it scalds, and he snaps his hand back. He nudges the handle down a few centimeters and pulls the plug to turn on the shower. The warm water washes over him, causing his frizzy hair to fall down to his shoulders. He lathers up his washcloth with body soap, the falling water reminds of him of simpler times like when he did not have to breathe on his own. He remembers telling her, “I was born on March 31st at 11:59 pm, I think it was God’s way of telling my parents what to expect.” Then he remembers her reply, “The salt shows the ripples. Want me to read your future?” He kicks off the water, and dries himself.

He puts his hair in a ponytail, and brushes his teeth. He grabs his deodorant and quickly swipes the flaky white under his arms. He throws on his white undershirt, but almost falls over trying to put his jeans on. He put both legs in one end. He grabs a checkered short sleeve button up and shoves his keys and money into his pocket. As he leaves, he smells the distinct stench of spoiled milk coming from his refrigerator, which causes the normal sulfur smell to buckle under its supremacy. He snatches it from the refrigerator and slams the door knocking novelty magnets to the chip ceramic tiles. A picture of him with his arm around a girl, a thick black “X” over her face, falls to the floor. 

Outside, he shot puts the spoiled jug of milk at Ms. Hernandez’s bodega. He never did let go of the grudge. The humidity is so thick it causes his undershirt to cling to his body only a block away from his apartment building. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him. Thick pit stains form under his arms by the time he reaches the subway entrance. He groans as he swipes his Metro card. The tunnel is even muggier than the surface and he wants to kill himself for even thinking of going out today. The train arrives ten minutes late, and the onslaught of people causes him to sit next to a pair of teenage girls. The entire train ride he wishes he chose a better career path so he could buy a MP3 player.

He arrives at 42nd street an hour later. He knows 42nd is touristy, heaped with cheese, and as a native New Yorker he should hate it. There is something about the unbearably bright lights; camera carrying, garish button up shirts and Bermuda short combination out-of-towners; and street vendors trying to sell him his name in animal letters or a poorly drawn sketch of Spider-Man or a bootleg DVD. All of it makes him feel good. The air gives him a warm sensation in the pit of his stomach, and he slacks his shoulder back and takes a deep breath, he is content. 42nd is not like where he lives or Brooklyn, both of which makes him want to jump off the top of his building or wish for napalm to rain down from the skies.

He stares at the giant blackboards with crimson block letters. The two boards are set on both sides of the entrance, and the movie titles and times cycle over every ten seconds. He walks inside, the cool air rushes over him. He shudders at the chill. He runs his hands across the soft velvet ropes connecting the partitions; he wishes to be draped in velvet, and would be, were it not for society’s views. 
“What tickets would you like?”

He freezes remembering the times she would force him to go see foreign or art films in the East Village. The smell of cloves and patchouli fills his nostrils.

“Sir…SIR!”

“One for Dark Knight.” He says fishing the ten and five from his pocket. He takes his ticket and change walking away in victory.

After the movie, he stands outside the theatre watching the steam rise from the grates. He is transfixed on the play title in lights next to him. “Spam again,” he thinks. He hears arguing next to him, one voice deep and sounds like an ogre gargling dead children in hot asphalt, and the other sounds similar to what he could only wager a pixie sounds like. Unable to move in time an old woman pushes him to the side, as she drags her grandson along. Generally, he would curse out the old bag because of a short temper and hot blood due to his heritage, but he only stares at the pair and thinks, “fruit is dying…”