Dancing Robots

You sat on the bench. You were not talkative. Lots to process and you were not ready to discuss anything with anyone. Wearing a long green dress with silver dangling necklace, your hair and face were made up and you were quiet as a mouse. You and your girlfriend, who had a permanent bored look on her face, were sitting on a bench below an art exhibit. You were not talking because you were tired and slightly out of sort. It had been a long while since you were back here, it was a dark gallery with intricate art work. And dancing robots.

People gathered around, stoned, mostly. They chatted. They gathered. But they ignored you so you were left to your own devices. A man with a handsome face and flannel shirt came into the room. He looked familiar, he was the artist. The creator. His eyes locked with yours. You looked at him, did not smile, did not look away, just returned his glance.  Then he disappeared. You whispered to your companion, the girl with permanently bored face. “That’s the owner of the gallery. He created these things. I had spoken to him before. He is brilliant.” She nodded her head. “Everyone here must be stoned. Look at these things.” She said.

You said, “Perhaps. But I’m not stoned. I still like looking at these objects. The dancing robots. They dance to the music. They were expressing the emotion of love. Longing for love.”  You always had a fascination for robots, dancing ones in particular. Robots were machines, without emotions, feelings, or any kind of attachments. They followed orders. They had no hearts. They did not bleed. These dancing robots were called SLAVE 0. You envied robots. You gave your heart out, your heart bled, your heart broke, you had nothing left. You picked up your pieces. You reinvented yourself. You moved forward. You gave in to your desires. You cried. You wanted him to hold you. He disappeared. He reappeared. Your heart broke and your heart mended. Your love, gone. Only sadness remained.

Man reappeared. This time he lingered in the room, locking stares with you. He came closer to your bench, but was afraid of talking to you. You extended your hand to introduce yourself and your companion. Complimented man’s art. Man held a round spinning gold door knob, he was nervous and he wanted to talk to you. He complimented your necklace. Your silver rings ridden necklace. Said that he created something like that, in Stanford, where he worked, where he earned paychecks developing tools for neuroscience department. Instruments. Things that he made to make a living so that he could create pieces of art, like dancing robots and serpentine arms. Spinning objects that flew across called the Reaper. Things that fascinated you, attracted you and made you happy. You liked machines. You liked science fictions. You liked men who created things and were scientists themselves. You disliked businessmen. You liked intellectuals who thought deeply but who were oddly disconnected with the world. You felt bonded with them because they were emotionally distant and you could never risk really getting your feeling reciprocated. It’s complicated and you were damaged. You were attracted to men who created things, but could not be in touch with their own feelings. You liked when they were afraid of emotions and couldn’t communicate. You worried if your love could be returned. What then, what then, because you got bored if that was the case, you ran away because men got fixated on you.

The phone blinked. Texts came in. From a man who was a model and ex soccer player from South America, a man who had thousands of followers and who thought he was the shit, until you stood him up and rejected him. He went crazy and then apologized. Wanted another chance. You disappeared. He wouldn’t give up. It was not the first time men got crazy about you because you were hot and cold. You liked to disappear. The moment you detected any surge of emotions from men, you ran the other way. You did not like to admit it but you liked distant men. Men who were emotionally distant and consequently broke your heart. You wanted to be abandoned. That was your curse. Men who won’t let you go scared you. You showed the text to your companion. The girl with permanently bored look on her face. “What do you want to do with him? Do you want to meet him? He’s good looking.” You tried to pawn the model to your companion.  “Not sure.” The girl was uncertain. The girl was not that interested in men.  You were not interested in men who thought they were hot.

Man reappeared. This time he was getting severely interested in speaking to you. He talked over your companion, as if your companion did not exist. He had lots to share. He wanted to talk to you and hold you and make love to you. That part you sensed. He was awkward and timid. He was attracted to you because you were calm and you did not seem to be that impressed with the brilliant work. And you had a lot to say about his art and challenged him to create other things. For instance, pollen with different shapes but colored to resembled the actual colors of the flower. An installation piece in SFMOMA for the dancing robots?  So he tried to offer you with complimentary weed. You took up his offer. They were high quality weed. You seemed happier after. Proceeded to play with his film device. Broke it. He came to fix it. You tried to apologize, but he held your hand and showed you how to fix it. Skin touched skin. You pretended that did not just happen. You saw 3D film of Rome. Venice and Istanbul. Man grew up in Rhode Island and went to college in Boston. They were always almost all educated from Boston. Of course they did. Men educated from Boston all move to San Francisco.  And then they met you. Stories always started from there and ended in whichever direction, 18 years of the same theme, still the same. Nothing ever changed. Absolutely nothing.

Man wanted to talk about Burning Man. MoMa grant. Italy. India. Man wanted to see when you could get together with him. Man wanted you to stay. But you knew it was time. You never overstayed your welcome. You always left when they wanted more. You broke hearts too. It was always two way streets. Man handed you a card. “We should get together sometime.” Man was sad to see you go. You walked out of the gallery with his card. You looked back, and there he was looking out, waiting for you to turn your head, and as you did, he felt reassured.

You’d write back. He’d ask you out for dinner. You’d break his heart eventually because you have no more love to give out. It was a story that you’d written many times before. You saw the ending before the man did. You always knew how it was going to end. You fell in love once every blue moon. Once every fifteen years. Everyone else was all but a footnote. But you may take up his offer for a drink or dinner. To talk about dancing robots. To smoke good weed, and to see if you could create something together, an art piece perhaps. You were always someone’s muse. And muse was the only thing you should be.