Grey

we would be able to submerge beneath the scrutiny of the millions of camera lenses, the critics’ judgments, and the multitudes of opinions, but today, we had our duty.

When we stepped outside, the crowd’s noise rushed over us like a tidal wave. Lights flashed. Everyone began cheering, clapping, and shouting. When we started toward the podium ten feet away, Nora pulled her hand from mine.

She did it gently, but the feeling it gave me was that I had done something wrong, that she was annoyed or had changed her mind about me. As I frantically tried to remember the agreed-upon blocking, but couldn’t recall if we were supposed to be holding hands now or not, I stared forward into the cameras and tried to pretend that nothing unusual had happened, that my heart hadn’t just been cracked. But as I tried to smile, I was sure I could hear the servomotors whine as the cameras all zoomed in on my flushed face.

When I turned, Nora was tugging off the charcoal chenille glove from her left hand. I saw a metallic flash of what looked like a tiny surgical robot, and then an inch line of blood welled across the creases of her palm.

Although her hand and blood were in color—of course—it was just like an image from Pure H in an ad for a top-of-the-line, Invisi-Pearl™ finishing-stitch machine. The photo^R6 was a close-up of a wounded woman’s hand resting on wet sand. Beneath the image, the copy read: The moment became her life. My advisor told me that the hand was that of a dead woman and that the moment had passed, but as Nora held her hand for me to see, clearly, she believed the moment was approaching; and moreover, that the wound was evidence of a struggle that the hand had endured on its journey to this climactic moment.

I loved her hopeful interpretation! Most photographers around the stage pushed, shoved, and jockeyed for position to capture the image, but a few, who obviously knew Pure H, lowered their cameras in respect and awe.

And then Nora, whose eyes were quivering with tears of what I imagined were joy and pain, held her bloody hand toward me. That was how she felt: she wasn’t just offering the warm smoothness of her skin, but the river of her life, the solution of her heart.

I felt a jolt of excitement as my fingers met her soft and warm flesh. At first, I clasped her hand as gently as one might a dove. Her fingers curled around mine and when our palms touched, I felt the heat of her blood. A moment later, I squeezed her gently and spread the wetness between us. And had I known what would happen in the next ten minutes, I would have never let go.

As we stepped before the podium, a moderator, a short, stocky man who I recognized from some interview show on the channels, pointed to a reporter in the crowd and asked for the first question.

– Nora, does that mean you’re in love?

Her grip tightened around my fingers, and I imagined the question embarrassed her. In the delay before she replied, I wondered if I should speak for her, to defuse the awkwardness.

“Love is an important subject to ponder,” she said into the pipe organ of microphones before us. After a sly glance toward me, she nodded once to the crowd to indicate that that was her answer.

– You were rumored to be involved with a robot. Is it true?

– Nora, do you cut yourself?

– Is your father on ARU?

The MC asked them to go one at a time, but questions came from every angle.

– Show us your hand again!

– Are you really a purebred, Michael?

– Do you endorse Hershey-Decker Industries whose ad you quoted?

– What are you planning for your wedding night?

– Nora, are you sterile from the ’Ceutical Wars?

– They say five women actually write Pure H. Think that’s true?

– Doesn’t your dad hate you, Michael?

– Did you two secretly marry last week?

– What’s that blood thing mean?

“The blood thing,” said Nora, emphasizing the word as if to mock the reporter’s ignorance, “is just for Michael. I would never let someone touch my insides without feeling the enchantment I do toward him.”

I loved her word enchantment. It felt mysterious and yet solid, as if carved from a block of fragrant eucalyptus. I knew I couldn’t be more lucky and blessed, and tried to keep my eyes focused forward and clear, like a good foot soldier, but I could feel the saltwater rise. When I wiped my eyes with a handkerchief, more questions rained down on us despite the little man trying to maintain order.

“One at a time,” he pleaded.

– Are you crying?

– Michael, when will you take over RiverGroup?

– Are those tears of love? Or is this another of your dad’s crazy schemes?

– You’re breaking a billion girls’ hearts, Michael! Sure she’s the one?

– Are you both virgins?

– Michael, they say you still secretly dance Bang. Is it true?

– Nora, will your family company become a unit of RiverGroup or merge completely?

– Is your father’s DNA mutated?

– What’s it like to be with Michael Rivers?

– Have you two done it?

– Are those nude photos in Sir Princess Zonk really you, Nora?

– Will you deflower her at the product show?

– How much are you both worth?

We fielded the proper questions as best we could, but they kept coming faster and faster. Meanwhile, the moderator became so flustered, he started shouting. The reporters screamed back. I decided to try and calm the crowd and released Nora’s hand. At first, our palms stuck, then the seal was broken. Stepping before the microphones, I raised my arms, and said, “Thank you, all.” I tried to smile and say it nicely, but the mass of reporters began to push in on the barricades, and soon a dozen family police, in their protective orange satin suits, were pushing back. People started screaming. The next moment a fire burst out and someone was engulfed in flames.

Nora’s attendants quickly covered her with a protective net and carried her off to her green and gold Loop limousine. I wanted to go after her, make sure she was okay, say goodbye, and gaze into her left eye so she would know that I felt precisely the same as her, but after I took one step, it felt like a knife stabbed my hand. The force whipped my arm backward and almost knocked me over. As I turned to see if one of the family security satins had accidentally hit me, I was surprised to see Joelene beside me, covered with a fine spray of blood.

Joelene was my tutor, my advisor, and my best friend. She was a good five inches shorter, with loose, curly, light brown hair, a slim mouth, and thin, amethyst eyes. “Joelene,” I said, afraid the blood was hers. She had the strangest, saddest expression. “What’s the matter?” I asked, as the pain in my hand turned white hot.

Besides Nora’s blood that had dried in the wrinkles and creases of my palm, now a dot of my own blood welled up in the middle. For an instant, I thought it perfect and symmetrical. I glanced after Nora as if to show her, but when I turned my hand over, I saw that the back was bloody too.

The wound went all the way through as if I had been shot. I was about to ask Joelene what was going on, when my left hand was violently snapped backward and another spray of blood atomized in the air. I cried out because the pain was excruciating. Bones had been shattered and tendons severed.

Joelene’s face was now covered with a heavy splatter and she was grimacing and blinking fast as if it had gotten in her eyes.

“I’m shot!” I said, pulling my hands toward my chest to try to comfort and protect them. How could this be happening? I was first son of RiverGroup, the security company.

“You’ll be all right!” she said.

Before I could move, I felt a horrific stab in my right foot and screamed. Then I felt the same blast in my left. The tops of my shoes were cracked open like tiny bombs had gone off.