A Piece of You
by Siri Paulson Your “hand” arrived today. Okay, okay, the haptic feedback glove that you programmed at our home on Mars arrived today. Strange to think how many months it’s been since you touched it, Marisol, and yet the pressure of its fingers on mine feels exactly as if you were here with me. The glove is supposed to make me feel less lonely – just me, myself, and I, Sophie Runningdeer-Lopez, out here in this tin can of a communications array for another year, with the Sun so far away it’s just another star. Funny thing is, I was doing just fine until it arrived. I have my embroidery and my book-reader, and I talk to the techs operating the next array over in each direction – except Karl, who insists on misgendering me – which gives me several ongoing conversations even if there’s a half-hour lag on each. Of course, conversations hum inaudibly through the array all around me; the irony of my solitude is staggering, she says dryly. It was easier when I could just put you in a little mental box, and pull you out every once in a while to think about our life together, and then shut you away again. But you would want me to use the glove, even if it wasn’t required for all solitary workers. I imagine you with the holographic sensors covering your skin, thinking of me as you went methodically through all the motions that the glove recorded. Methodical…