Weekly Writing – August 26 2023

She spent more time in her house, lately, than in her body. Snugging the cable in behind her ear, the familiar click, then laying herself out on the couch and flitting free of herself with a thought.
Through the wires and systems that kept the house bright and warm and constant. That called for groceries before she could reach for anything in the fridge that wasn’t there, scrutinized the air for smoke or other pollutants – no recreational pollutants, it was right there in her lease – and began playing her favourite music the moment she stepped in the door.
She watched herself, her body, through the camera in the corner of the living room ceiling. Her still, slack, peaceful face, her chest rising and falling in steady standby. It was comforting in a way she’d given up on describing to anyone after the first friend looked at her as if she were dangerous or in danger.
Warm and comforting and sturdy and whole, to feel the walls as if they were her body. To contain rather than being contained. As the house, she was something sheltering and benevolent. Built to last, with titanium bones and rubber-clad nerves, not running down a mortal clock towards inevitable obsolescence. She was serene and powerful, and could almost love the smaller, softer body lying on standby in her embrace.