SONG OF THE SPARER
It had become fashionable that year to say, "I love you." People met
and exchanged solemn looks, unquestioning glances, pungent, intractable
vows. I love you had swept the people. Men loved women, women loved
children and children loved the little animals of the fields or the tiny
flowers of the garden. Magazines, books, songs, prayers, chants, plays,
broadcasts all dedicated themselves equally to I love you-s. And into
this, out of this. Came the sparer.
S/he had long, feline eyes. Slinky grace of cat. Whiskers that swayed
gently when reading the expression upon the face of the person s/he was
speaking with. Poems instead of heartbeats. Lovemaking instead of
food. Sparer comes with tired, withered sunlight in its paws; these
s/he hands out to the needy. Sparer meowing like a miniature tornado.
Comes up to you and just knows how much you wait. How different you are
from the others. How they'll just settle... but you... you'll wait,
even if you might die, waiting.
"There's blood on the wall, not much, just a few drops. Cup of water
near the bedside, brand new. Some acetaminophen, the ibuprofen's all
done. So's the ice-cream. My hair's wet. I take these real hot
showers and just... think of her. What else is there to do, right?"
Sparer nods sagely.
"So at night, I walk my neighborhood. I tell you there's never anything
happening. By this time my sweat is chilled to my shirt. I might even
begin to shiver. If I happen to glance up at the moon it's invariably
far too big in the sky. Feverish, optical illusions... the small trees
by the lake begin to look like undulating glow-worms."
Sparer settles back in his/her pod.
"I keep thinking of all the words I'm too lazy to look up in the
dictionary, you know? Keep looking for these excuses to feel guilty.
My hair begins to grow faster, I can feel the roots twist and tendril.
I begin to imagine naked people."
Sparer suggests they are copulating. S/he does this with his/her mind,
however, and never says a single word.
"Yea, they are. They're real good at it, too, S. I kind of half think
I'd like to join them, except the wind picks up at that very moment."
Sparer looks at you questioningly.
Thing about this year, everyone says, "I love you." It's all the rage.
It's in vogue. But nobody knows what it means. Men keep on eating
women. Women continue to eat children. Children continue to eat the
beasts of the field or the small flowers of the garden. It's as if
everyone knows what to do, but can't bring themselves to do it.
Magazines, books, songs, prayers, chants, plays, broadcasts all
dedicated themselves equally to feeding. And into this, out of this.
Came the sparer.
--Stanley Gemmell