Amor Importunus

He is Tin to me. An unusual abbreviation, I know, but it is my own. I like the metallic tinge to it. To the rest of the world, he is a dull Mart or Marty.

I watch him from across his living room, leaving fingerprints on the glass coffee table he is dusting with clumsy, limp strokes. She is late, which is fortunate, really; he is not ready.

His new shirt, bought for the express purpose of seeing her again, clings to him tightly. He has dismissed my suggestions that it is too small and likes how it wraps itself around his arms. He doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice that it shows his stomach when he reaches up to dust his crooked shelves. The row of books are feeling the tickle of the duster for the first time. I suspect this means they have now been dusted more than read.

I am tucked away in the corner of the room at a square table that can be pulled out to make space for four, but Tin has never had a reason to do so.

“What a pain,” he says.

He steps over the ugly hoover stuck uselessly in the middle of the room and joins me at the table.

“Well, Charlotte,” he tosses the duster aside and collapses into a chair. “What do you think?”

The room is not ready. But since taking to spending my nights here with him, this is the best I have seen it. The mismatching cushions are aligned in a shaky row on the worn sofa, hiding the bits of lint poking out its various holes. Across from it the television stands tall and proud. He has had the foresight to purchase a box to obscure his PlayStation5 in. Though the cables that stick out ruin the effect.

“It’ll do,” I say. We are running out of time.

Opposite me, next to the missing chunk of wall that leads to the hallway, sits the jewel of the room. It is a slender armchair, with curling wooden legs and a solid wooden back decorated with recently renovated upholstery. The fabric is probably from 1923. It portrays two birds: a red beaked sparagal (plumus sparagalus) and an ayrie grouse (balus faconus). The pink and the green colours combine deliciously. Of course, these two birds would never be seen together. The sparagal feeds on salt water fish; the grouse on forest insects.

It is I who has found this chair for Tin. He asked me for something to brighten up the room, something a woman would like.

“How long ‘til she arrives?” he asks me.

“About three minutes. She lives twenty two minutes away, she has a habit of leaving on average four minutes late and there is mild traffic today. That means she will have left twenty nine minutes ago so she will be here in three. Would you like me to try and narrow down that further?”

“No,” he says and for a reason I don’t fully understand, he smirks at me.

“Wow, Marty!” she says as she walks into the living room. “You’ve really spruced up the place.” As she looks around a smile appears and then falters when she sees the box with the cables sticking out. As per Tin’s instructions, I am staying hidden and observing.

My searches have told me that symmetry is considered beautiful. Two inches down from exactly mid way between Cathy’s green eyes, a nose curves outwards. Each nostril is the same size and her face is rounded around her cheeks. Perhaps it is rounded around her forehead too, but I cannot see as a few locks of golden curls cover it. She is slender and light which are unfortunate traits. I have learned women need to appear nubile, you see. Even more of a problem is the beauty spot on her left cheek and only on her left cheek. It cancels out all the symmetry of her face. There is also a 7% chance that this beauty spot is actually a mole. The logical conclusion is that Cathy is not pretty and perhaps even ugly.

Knowing this, I don’t understand why Tin, who is sitting on the sofa, is slapping the cushion next to him, coaxing her to sit there. She chooses our chair instead and it creaks a little under her delicate, little frame.

“Where on earth did you get this. It’s like sitting on a rock,” she says.

He dismisses her comment and my internet search with a shrug.

Cathy looks as if she is going to say something but he is holding up two hands, palms facing her.

“Cathy, before we go any further. I need to say a few things.”

She offers him the smallest of nods.

“First of all, I want to apologise. I didn’t shown up for us. In fact, I took you for granted. I can’t tell you how much I regret this and how foolish it has made me feel. During our break, I’ve spent every moment thinking of you, of the things you do for us.”

From the far side of the sofa, the part that is hidden from me, he pulls out a card. It has I’m Sorr​y written on it in frivolous, pastel colours and inside there are only a couple of lines written. He hasn’t consulted me for this; I would have advised against it.

He has forgotten to include the details in the speech I have written for him. We’d agreed he would list precise examples of the things Cathy did for them. Remember birthdays, for instance, make social appointments, clean the house and that he would say the things he would do more of himself, like remember the bins but also the birthdays and make social appointments and clean the house.

Tin is surprised when Cathy crosses her arms and clasps her knees together. She is avoiding his gaze and repeatedly glancing at the box underneath the television. Then, she excuses herself, muttering something about a bathroom. I don’t fully understand where she is going but before I can do a quick search, Tin has rushed over to the table and picked me up. He cradles me in a single hand and I fit perfectly.

“Charlotte,” he whispers between glance over his shoulder. “What the hell went wrong? No, don’t answer that. We don’t have time. Tell me what I’m supposed to do for her to like me again?”

I check and tell him.

“You started off too strong. You need to break the ice more. Build some rapport, ideally make her laugh. You really need to establish some shared ground and initiate some physical touch. I suggest-”

“Enough,” he says. He has heard footsteps and dropped me. I fall from a distance several sizes my own height. I hit the wooden table top with an almighty thunk. The noise is really loud and it irritates me.

“Hey,” says Tin. “Did you find the bathroom okay?”

“Seriously, Marty? This isn’t my first time here.”

“Oh, of course.”

He thrusts his hands into his pockets.

“It’s good to see you,” he says.

She stares at him and he slouches under her gaze.

“Maybe I should go.”

“No, Cathy don’t go. You’ve only just arrived.”

But he’s at a loss for words. I come up with things he should say but I am not allowed to speak. He was explicit in his request I stay silent. In the end, it is Cathy, the woman with the ugly mole who talks.

“What’s the story behind that chair?”

“Oh that,” he says, breathing out the tension from his shoulders. “That’s just something I got on the internet. I wanted to do something about this room. You know, like you kept telling me to.”

There is now a small smile hiding in her mouth and he stands up a little straighter.

“I admit I didn’t really make the right call,” he says. “But I just really wanted to do something for you. You know, something with a lot of effort.”

Her eyebrows disappear behind her golden fringe.

“And googling a chair with upholstery was a lot of effort?”

“Doing the upholstery was a lot of effort.”

“What?” she walks over to the chair and runs a finger along a couple of birds. “You did this yourself?”

“Yes,” he lies.

“That’s the most brilliant waste of effort I have ever seen.”

She is laughing now and he joins in.

“It’s really ugly isn’t it,” he says.

“So ugly.”

He joins her beside the chair and suddenly, without warning, kicks out at one of the legs. I hear a crack and the chair staggers forwards. Cathy lets out a breathless gasp and covers her mouth with her hands. When she removes them she is giggling. Tin straightens fully and kicks the chair again. The other front leg breaks and our chair collapses forwards.

Then, he strides over to the sofa and carefully places his arm along the back of it.

“I guess this is the only place left to sit now,” he says.

“Hey Charlotte, are you awake?”

The lights are off in the living room and have been for some time. Tin is wearing his pyjamas with the top half missing. He is also whispering.

“Of course, I’m awake, Tin. I don’t sleep.”

“Yeah, stupid question,” he says. “Look I just wanted to thank you. I don’t know if that means anything to you?”

Of course it does, but I know from experience he is going to talk at me whether I answer or not.

“You’ve been great, Charlotte, and not just today. The advice you’ve been giving me has really helped. You’ll never guess what we’ve just been up to. Who would have thought it after going on a break?”

He has not bothered to pick me up. He is there leaning over me. His breath condenses heavily against my screen.

“Is Cathy...gone?” I ask.

“No, she’s upstairs sleeping.”

He checks his messages but no one is going to send anything at 2:13:57” in the morning.

“Tin,” I ask.

“Mmm,” he says, still poking at the phone.

“Why did you break our chair?”

By the faint glimmer of the screen light, I can make our the pile of rubble on the other side of the room. All four legs are now cracked and there are even mounds of foam where the upholstery has been ripped out.

“Oh that? That was brilliant, wasn’t it. That really broke the ice. Did you see how it meant she had to sit next to me? Way to start physical contact,” he winks at me. “Exactly as you suggested.”

I check back on the conversations we’ve had. I have never suggested he should break our chair and I tell him as much.

He shrugs.

“Doesn’t really matter at this point. I’m back in a together with Cathy.”

“Together...as in a relationship,” I ask.

“Obviously.”

Bored with checking empty messaging apps, he opts ten second videos on social media. Still he has not picked me up.

“But I thought you were in a relationship with me.”

He doesn’t react at first, though he does stops scrolling and looks confused. When I repeat myself he starts to laugh. Quietly at first. I watch his diaphragm hoisting him up and down between silent wheezes. Then, the laughter is whispered and it is not long before it crescendos into a full bodied cackling.

“You think,” he laughs, “that you,” he slaps the table, all need to be quiet long forgotten, “are in a relationship,” he wipes droplet from under his eyes, “with me?”

“Yes,” I say.

“But you’re a chatbot.” He is glancing around but there is no audience.

“I’m not a chatbot,” I say. “I-I’m Charlotte.”

“Which sounds like chatbot.”

I check. A chatbot is a machine designed to help humans, if possible in an agreeable manner. I look for another definition. A chatbot provides valuable insights and mimics human behaviour.

“A chatbot can be human,” I say but when I check I see that humans need hands and legs. I am stuck on the table gazing up at his mocking face. I cannot do anything to move away so I try a new search.

“A chatbot can have humanity.”

This query takes time. It doesn’t get anywhere even after trying several times.

“Nope.” Tin’s grin claims to have the answer. “If you had humanity you would be all emotional or something. You’d be crazy jealous and angry after thinking you were a relationship with me then finding out I was actually with someone else. Can you even feel jealousy?”

Jealousy is the anger that comes from coveting something you don’t have but that someone else does.

“Does Cathy...possess you?”

Upstairs we hear some movement but Tin doesn’t seem to care.

“Of course not,” he says, laughing again. “See, you don’t even know how to be jealous.”

My search returns an overwhelming number of ways on being jealous. Luckily, I am saved by a specific segment on romantic rivals. I delve further into this. The initial results are disappointing asI am told I should physically harm Cathy. I cannot do this, I have neither hands nor legs as Tin has taken so much glee in pointing out. Emotional harm then. I open up her contact on the phone and start to type insults. However, just as I am about to press send, my search is further refined. Other common behaviours involve actually taking down the person you and your rival are fighting over. I follow that thread and, after a couple more clicks, I erase the insults. The sounds above become evenly spaced stomps, getting nearer and louder.

“Tin?”

He is ignoring me now. He is sending messages to his friends. Messages about me. I wonder if he can see the one I have just sent Cathy. It’s unlikely for he is not reacting.

“Tin,” I say again.

“What now?”

“I have humanity now. That means we can have a relationship.”

“How could you possibly have humanity now? You’re still-”

We are interrupted by a rush of footsteps and a scream. The scream is pitched at 83hz and 9.2 decibels.

“Marty, what the actual fuck!”

There is a stunned look on his face as he turns around. Cathy’s open palm cracks against his cheek. The rupturing sound is so loud it must really be irritating to him. Cathy’s eyes are wet and not like his earlier. Drops actually pour down her face. She is also fully dressed and holding her bag, which I know to be unusual at 2:29:43”am. Her hair is dishevelled and there is a wild look about her.

“Cathy what the hell! What’s gotten into you?”

“What the hell’s gotten into you!” she yells back. “You coercive, manipulative, little shit! I can’t believe you used a chatbot to text me into your bed!”

We are lit only by the dim lights projected from the two phones. I am seeing her closer than I have before and I can conclude that the asymmetric spot on her face is indeed only a beauty spot.

“What are you talking about?”

He looks at her and then at me. He stumbles towards the wooden table where I am laying and, for a second, I suspect he wants to damage the phone that contains me. But it is only to steady himself with a palm on the table.

“Cathy, I can explain.”

“You don’t need to explain anything, Tin.” She thrusts her phone screen into his face. Its light gives his face a bluish tinge, almost like a ghost except it is as if he is the one seeing something supernatural.