Moore’s Law of Relationships
by A.J Kirby
It had ended. I knew it. Some ethereal part of you knew it. Paul Simon knew it. He bubbled away in the background still: ‘I don’t want no part of this crazy love,’ he said, and I knew exactly what he was talking about. I gripped the edges of the sink and plunged my head back into it, not really feeling my head smashing into some of the crockery that you had neglected to wash.
But I couldn’t do it. Oh, I could end your existence with a simple flick of the wrist – no thought – but my hard-wiring was playing up now. I couldn’t stop my own random memories and lost files from having their say. I didn’t want to lose everything.
I pulled out and looked with confusion at my trembling hands. Killing you might have been a temporary glitch after all. Maybe I’m not programmed for killing. Maybe I was, despite all of your protestations to the contrary, a lover not a fighter.
I returned to my desk, where I’d been engaged in writing a will before your final, terrible interruption. Everything on the desk reminded me of you as you once were. I didn’t need a reminder of what you were now. You were lying prone on my shag-pile carpet. I felt my own heart crunch like a bitten biscuit every time I stole a look at you.
I couldn’t even summon up the energy to cover up my crime.
When we were in the first throes of our relationship, we *worked*, didn’t we? We had this kind of symbiotic relationship. You could almost read my mind. You were quick, sleek and agile. You were everything that I could have wanted. But yes, I admit it, at the end, my head had been turned.
I once saw this documentary about Moore’s Law; it’s a computing law which basically observes that the capacity of digital devices doubles every six to eighteen months. By the time you’ve bought a computer, it’s pretty much out of date. It was the same with us. Almost as soon as we’d properly got to know each other, I couldn’t help but notice the other lithe young things which I *could* have had.
And so, when you started your usual playing up, I, in the heat of the moment decided that I could do without you. But I forgot, in those red misted seconds, about the shared knowledge of us that you stored. As I crushed you in my palm, there was no digital scream. It felt good. No more of your stubborn refusal to do as I asked!
Why did you make me do it? It was your feminine guiles, wasn’t it? You were playing me all along. You were built for a limited shelf-life, you knew you couldn’t last forever; all you needed was to convince some poor sap like me to come along and put you out of your misery.
A.J Kirby is the UK author of three novels; The Magpie Trap (to be published in January 2009 through Youwriteon.com), When Elephants walk through the Gorbals (which was third place winner in the 2008 Luke Bitmead Writers' Bursary competition from Legend Press) and Leap Year (which he is currently re-writing). His portfolio also includes over thirty published short-stories. Publication credits include Nemonymous 8: Cone Zero, Graveside Tales, Sein und Werden, Jupiter SF magazine (forthcoming), Skrev Press, New Voices in Fiction magazine, Underground magazine, Necrology magazine, Monkey Kettle, Golden Visions, and of Bog Champagne Shivers. He was runner-up in the 2008 Huddersfield Literature Festival creative writing competition, won third prize in the People in Action 25th anniversary short story competition and was also short-listed for the Cinnamon Press short fiction prize and the Mere Literary Festival prize. To find out more, visit Andy's website: Andy Kirby the Writer.