Page 84 of Ezra
He takes the bouquet back. “Let me.”
His voice and the slight graze of his hand on the small of my back, guiding me gently to the side, send delighted prickles of goosebumps along my skin. He sounds... intimate. Like we’re already lovers and have been for some time. He locates a pair of scissors in my drawer, snips the stems, and sets them perfectly in the tall mug filled with water and flower food to keep the blooms bright.
Every move he makes is so deliberate, measured, and gentle. I quietly marvel at him. How can someone so broad, so powerful, be so careful with something as fragile as a flower? I reflecton his behavior with Washington’s child outside the downtown precinct. My ovaries are suddenly on an internal rampage.
“I didn’t realize you were a florist too.”
“Benefits of a computer brain,” Ezra says, setting the flowers on my counter for me. “I can learn to do anything in the blink of an eye.”
“Must come in handy.”
“It does, in more ways than one,” he replies. Then he takes me by the hands and gently pulls me in. His lips find mine. What starts out as tender explodes into passion. I slide my arms up over his shoulders, my fingers weaving into his synthetic hair. It’s so natural, so real, just like the softness of his lips, the soft reverberation in his chest against mine as he stifles a noise of contentment.
When the kiss breaks, I’m almost rendered speechless. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” I whisper, my knees threatening to buckle as he leans down and rubs his smooth cheek against mine.
Ezra teases my ear, causing tingles to shoot up my spine. “Good.” He tilts my chin up, not allowing me to escape the intensity of his eyes. “You know, I think you like this. Behaving this way with a droid. How forbidden it is, especially for you.”
“Maybe.” I bite my lower lip. “Just a little.”
“Just a little?”
“Okay, a lot,” I reply. “But I think you know that, with how you can scan me at any time. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Oh, there’s been several times you left me just as speechless, Katrina.” Ezra plants a kiss just below my jaw line. “In more ways than one. I admire that you can’t be told what to do, what to think.”
“True,” I answer coyly. “But maybe the right person has found a way to put me in my place.”
He blinks at me in surprise, and for the very first time, I see a true, albeit somewhat mischievous, smile cross Ezra’s face. “Be careful.” He twines his fingers with mine and leads me down the apartment corridor. “You may regret those words.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.” I scan the security pad with my free hand to lock up. I’ve just crossed the road from denial into lands unknown, and I’ve never been more exhilarated.
The Washingtons live on the south side of the river in Shieldridge. It’s called Old Town by most people, since it’s been around since before the 1900s. The suburb is essentially boxed in on all sides and has no room for any expansion. Its history is rich, though, in ways the rest of New Carnegie can’t boast. There’s an indigenous museum of Shawnee and Iroquois. Boatloads of impoverished Dutch and Irish immigrants—including my ancestors—settled here in droves. A statue stands in Old Buchanan Park dedicated to Shield’s Boys, the local volunteer battalion that was heroically slain at Gettysburg during a vicious battle against the Confederate Army.
The city’s own journey of righting injustice—desegregation, Civil Rights marches, and protesting the Vietnam War—are all catalogued across multiple memorials in Old Buchanan Park. They’ve survived the decades, before everything became cold, stainless, and neon.
I used to count Humanity First as the next chapter in that history. Now, with Ezra, I’m not sure where it’ll lead. My dad’s offer from the night before has remained on my mind. Could I lead it somehow?
Could I make it better?
It’s easy to put those worries aside when Ezra and I are talking. All my worries slip away until only warmth remains. He tells me stories about his job, things he dealt with day-to-day when he was first activated and the ACU was brand new.
“Wait, so the cop in that viral video wasyou?”
“Yes,” Ezra says as he parks along the boulevard and opens my door for me. “Traffic stop. Not usually our concern, but he was practically doing figure eights in front of us down North Pacific Avenue, texting and driving. Got me on video, of course. Calling me a junk pile, every name in the book. But”—he taps his temple—“I got him on video too, so when the department released my footage, well, his threats of a lawsuit quieted down pretty quick.”
I step out of the car and scan the quiet neighborhood, the smell of mesquite wood and smoke drawing me in. It’s not the fanciest or the most modern, but there’s a charm to the area that downtown neon lights and steel will never be able to replicate. Every house and yard are unique, nothing like the colorless, mass-produced magazine homes seen these days.
Leaves are scattered across grass and cement, the trees shedding their luscious green foliage for mid-autumn colors of orange and crimson. Children play, racing and chasing one another across the pavement, weaving around bushes or riding their bikes. A few teenagers sit together on the Washingtons’ front porch, scrolling their phones and laughing as they exchange videos and stories. They part for Ezra and me as we approach, glancing at me with passing curiosity before returning their gazes to their addictive gadgets.
Not like I can judge. My smartphone was practically glued to my hand from middle school onward. Spending time with Ezra has been the only time I’ve ever not really thought about my device. It’s tucked away and forgotten in my pocket. Ihaven’t touched my social media in a few weeks. No doubt the algorithms are pissed at me.
When I step through the front door, the smell of smoked brisket and ribs hits me full force, and my stomach growls hungrily. The murmur of multiple conversations, mulling throughout the interior of the home, pauses as people turn to see who’s arrived.
Their eyes are bright as they all erupt into a chorus of cheerful greetings, treating Ezra like an old friend long absent rather than a machine or a simple coworker. A few gazes fall on me, more out of curiosity than recognition.
A thunder of little feet crosses the ceiling above our heads as three young children come stampeding down the stairs.
“Ezra! You’re back!” a young girl squeals excitedly as she and her siblings launch themselves at the bionic man. He plants his feet apart to catch them as they launch themselves at him, not even slightly unbalanced in the act. I bite back a soft laugh.
