Metasyntactic Variable

In his garage, the doors locked. Shut off, no monitors, no earpiece linked to his communication device. This space, this time alone, reinvigorated him and made his marriage of thirty years unflappable. He pried the nails in the lid away from the crate delivered only hours ago, liking the feral squeal of the metal tearing simulated wood. Packing peanuts snowed a flurry through the crack. He hauled the lid aside and leaned it against the unmarred workbench.

As the peanuts fell away, her face appeared, closed eyes, drifting smile touching the light pink of her lips. Sleeping, it appeared. Her brown hair had been bobbed and the sweeping curve of it pointed forward in front of her ears, the rest of the length lay gracefully against the slope of her art nouveau neck. The dimple at the base of her throat sloped into a flawless horseshoe adjoining her clavicles, and the sprinkle of freckles pooled sensually at the base of that horseshoe. A single hand emerged from the snowdrift, lengths of thin finger topped with flesh pink manicured nails, the small right angle at the delicate wrist, alabaster skin. It was exactly – every last detail – the way he wanted her. Brushing aside the peanuts clinging to her nightshirt, he reached around the curves above her hips and lifted her from the packing crate.

Into the folding metal chair, he arranged her limbs. And for a prolonged moment, he stood there, a fist crammed into his jaw, as he admired her. The teardrop of her breasts, punctuated with a yolk of areola and nipple, feeling as they should when they pressed against his shoulder, not jelly like silicone and not sloppy like a water balloon. The slope of her ribcage and the curl of her abdomen, unmarred with a navel. The strings of her panties resting on the tiny shelf of her hips. Knees flat and square with taut tendon drawing lines up through her thighs, down into her calves. Dainty feet with the scale of toes marking five adagio notes.

He ran a finger along her cheek, down into the jaw, tracing along to the upswing of her neck. A loving touch, marveling at the perfection of her skin. Even the details of fine filaments of peach fuzz hairs at the nape of her neck, the shoulder.

It was exactly like her skin, twenty years ago. Every single time, they got that part right, and it still knocked him stunned.

In the crate, screwed by two boards to hold it in place, was the device. It was as thick as a dinner plate, but the square of the palm of his hand. A touch screen marked the top, machine burnished metal contained the microelectronics. He held his finger against the touch screen until a low glow rolled over the Plexiglas. A single word – HELLO – and the company logo of an ideogram of a face recognizing its reflection.

She opened her eyes. Almond and light brown with a circle around the outer edge of the iris of pure black. They always got that right too. He watched her focus on him, and the touch of smile brightened.

"Hello," she said, the voice a breath, little more than a whisper.

"Hello," he said.

Her smile intensified without being intimidating. "You hold the remote."

"I do."

"Do I mark you to the remote?"

"Please."

She blinked, a solitary, rapid flick of eyelids. He had been marked. "Shall I introduce myself, or do you already have a name for me?"

"Your name doesn't matter."

Not the slightest dip in her smile, or concern on her brow. "OK. We bypass that." She looked into the crate, searching the packing. "Shall I get dressed?"

"Your clothes do not matter."

Still not a ripple on her expression. Still the peaceful unconcern, the welcoming smile. The air of a creation too important to be concerned of details that might turn destructive. "What is your name?"