Touch

By Ron Wetherington

Photo by Van Tay Media on Unsplash

Lily and I were enjoying a deepening relationship when the unfortunate accident happened. I take full responsibility for the aftermath, but I think her scream was an overreaction. I learned from this trauma, and I am the better for it. I have moved on.

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I’m a robotics engineer for a large Boston corporation that builds medical androids. My specialty is developing the android’s ability to experience touch. My name is Rob. Lily was a recently hired executive assistant for sales and marketing, and the director asked me to familiarize her with our product.

I should confess up-front that I’m not good at social interactions. Besides, I am really focused on my project. I allocated an hour for her. I felt uncomfortable when she came to my lab.

Lily is tall and slender. Early forties. She wore a conventional black pantsuit. No makeup. Shoulder-length black hair that sort of cupped her round face. “Tell me, Rob,” she asked as she sat at the table across from me, “what is it, exactly, that you do? Design androids?” She casually opened a notebook. Clipped nails, I noted, as she pulled out a pen. No polish. She was all business.

“I design skin,” I answered. “Human-like skin.”

“That’s intriguing.” She scribbled something. “What are the major challenges?”

“Moisture is one concern.”

“Removing it?”

“On the contrary.” I impulsively reached for her hand, turning it palm up on the table. “Your skin is always moist.” I traced the inner surface of her arm. Like touching velvet. “If you look closely, you’ll see a slight sheen.” I released her hand, suddenly self-conscious. “But it’s also a barrier. It keeps us from leaking.”

“Leaking?” A laugh and a raised eyebrow.

“We’re two-thirds water,” I told her. “Wet organisms on dry land. Our skin seals the moisture in. Our pores let it seep out.”

“But androids are dry, not wet,” she said in a puzzling voice, ignoring the pad. She was loosening up.

“That’s the point,” I said. “Artificial skin can appear too dry. So, we’ve developed a synthetic polymer combining silicon and rubber, together with a layer of sensors which….” I trailed off, seeing a vacant expression in her eyes. “Sorry. We’ve infused a clear lubricant between the layers to keep the skin moist.” I stopped, folding my hands on the table.

She reached out and touched my hand. “Thank you for keeping the story simple,” she laughed, noticing my awkwardness. I went on, explaining details as simply as I could.

Considering my clumsiness, I thought our conversation went well, though I was still uncomfortable. Lily became more relaxed as we spoke, and seemed genuinely interested in my work. “I’d love to know more about this,” she smiled as she rose to leave.

We continued the conversation the following afternoon, and I gave her a tour of the lab, introducing her, showing her samples of android skin. There was a sparkle of interest in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. I was feeling more comfortable, perhaps almost accepted in a world beyond the laboratory. I wanted to see her again.

Our third meeting was in the break room, and the conversation strayed into the personal. She enjoys horseback riding, she told me; grew up on a Kentucky horse farm. I was born and educated here in Boston, I said, where my father taught computer science at MIT. She seemed sad when she learned I had no hobbies, no outside interests. “Maybe that will change,” Lily said. What does that mean? I wondered. It was abruptly apparent that we were both solitary, and there was a look of sympathy in her eyes. We met frequently over the next several weeks, usually brief encounters in my lab. We developed a casual rapport.

One Friday, we walked to the park across the street. Crossing as the light changed, I reached for her hand to hurry her along. It seemed natural for us to continue holding hands afterward as we strolled. It was a brisk October day with scudding clouds, the sun sneaking in and out, promising and then withdrawing.

We sat for a while on a park bench, watching squirrels chase one another up and down a nearby tree. A relaxed intimacy emerged in our banter. “We haven’t talked about robots and androids once,” she suddenly said. A sideward glance. “Are you okay with that, Rob?”

 “I’m fine with that, Lily,” I said. We had also neglected to volunteer any more personal details. She was not unattractive, yet had spoken nothing of suitors, or even friends, past or present. Still, she could say the same about me. Neither of us had asked.

“I’m fine with us,” I laughed, touching the tip of her nose. I had never felt playful before. It was good not to be focusing on androids.

Lily reached for my hand. “Why not come over to my place this evening for a glass of wine?” she asked, a bit nervously. I felt a puzzling rush. “Yes.”

I had not told her I didn’t drink. I would figure something out.

---

It was after six when I arrived at Lily’s. She had changed into a casual skirt and white silk blouse. She was wearing light makeup. And nail polish. We sat together on her lone sofa, facing a fireplace. Logs burned softly. A scented candle, two wine flutes, and a bottle of white wine rested on the coffee table in front of us. I would figure something out, I reminded myself.

Lily poured us wine, then turned to me. “I’m still curious,” she said. “When we first met, I asked you about the major challenges in android skin. We discussed moisture. What else?”

“Ah, yes,” I shifted, facing her. My territory, here. “There’s touch.” At this, she spontaneously reached out and touched the back of my hand, resting hers there. “There are two challenges here,” I said. “The first is pressure.”

“Applying it?” she asked, focused on our hands.

“Regulating it,” I answered, feeling the warmth. “Sensors implanted beneath the skin’s fabric calculate the precise pressure the fingers apply in any circumstance.” I brushed my fingers across her arm. “Sometimes delicate contact, like applying a surgical dressing.” I pressed. “Or firmer, as in wrapping a bandage.” There was a flush to her cheeks. “The challenge is to correctly interface android and human.”

“Yes, I see that.” Her voice faltered just the slightest. “What’s the second?”

“Reaction. The android must adjust to the patient’s response.” Her attention was on my eyes, not on my words. “The reaction depends on sensor density. Low density means low sensitivity.”

“Of course.” Her voice was husky.

I touched her index finger. “Do you know how many tactile neurons you have in your fingertip?” She shook her head. “Just over one thousand. The current android fingertip—androids that you are marketing—has half this equivalent.”

I shifted closer, tilting her chin with my thumb and forefinger. I ran my other thumb along the line of her jaw to demonstrate my point. “Most androids couldn’t distinguish the jawbone here from the yielding flesh just beneath it.” I drew my finger gently to the softness beneath her ear, along her neck to her chin. She closed her eyes, catching her breath.

I asked, “Do you know where you have the highest density of receptors?” She did not. “The lips,” I said, “where an android has none.”

She edged closer, our faces almost touching. Her warm breath encircled us, enclosing, possessing. Eyes closed, her lips brushed mine imperceptibly; then pressed firmly, assertively, her hands holding my face. I felt that same rush again.

She finally broke contact, exhaling forcefully. She fixed my gaze, her voice coming in a raspy staccato. “Every one of my tactile neurons just fired!” She laughed, flinging her head back. “God!”

I smiled nervously. She smiled back, her eyes watery, shaking her head. She reached for her wine and took a sip, her hand trembling, her grasp unsure. The glass slipped. I tried to intercept it, but it crashed onto the table, shattering. A sliver cut into my palm as I grabbed the broken flute.

“Oh, my God,” Lily erupted. “I’m so sorry!”

I quickly pressed a cocktail napkin against the cut. Lily reached for my hand. “Rob, let me help! How bad is it?”

“It’s okay, Lily,” I said, wanting to calm her. “It’s very minor.”

She held on to my hand, removing the napkin, exposing the wound. The cut was barely a centimeter long. But it was deep. We both watched as the colorless lubricant oozed out, seeping onto her lap. Lily stared speechless in a moment of disbelief, then sudden realization, abruptly thrusting my hand away.

That was when she screamed.

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Ron Wetherington is a retired anthropologist living in Dallas, Texas. He has a published novel, Kiva, and has published non-fiction in The Dillydoun Review, Literary Yard, and The Ekphrastic Review, and short fiction in Words & Whispers, Adanna, and in Flash Fiction Magazine.