She counted down the ribs from his clavicle with a sticky fingertip,
dabbed more gel, and painted a tiny, wet spiral over his heart. Her hair
smelled like freshly opened apples and something ineffable - dry ice,
he thought - one of those dizzying alchemies of hair product research.
From the degree to which she was leaning over him (he counseled himself not to look down her blouse), and the slight squint in her eyes, he
thought she must be nearsighted. The wrinkles at the corners suggested
she was around his age, mid-thirties. Her nose, though not indelicate,
had a slight finlike curve to it, which taken in combination with those
dark, peering eyes, gave her the slightly comical look of an inquisitive
bird. He wondered how many condemned men, as they were being
strapped into electric chairs, had spent their last moments checking out
the ladies seated among the witnesses.
She reached up and pressed the helmet onto his head.
"The session will last twenty minutes. All you have to do is sit back
and relax. Let's get you reclined. The lever's on the right."
He did as told, window swinging away, ceiling swinging into view.
Directly above, in the firmament of perforated tiles, a poster of a spiral
galaxy had been taped. Mira Egghart's upside-down head, like a wayward
planetoid, floated into view.
"You probably won't want to, but if you feel you need to stop, just
say the word - the helmet has a mic attached. Or if you can't speak, just
wave. Please don't handle the helmet yourself."
If I can't speak...
She left the room, switching off the light. The instant she did so the
air grew swampy and his skin prickled. These days, Fred didn't like the
dark, nor any hint of confinement. He could turn his head only slightly in
the helmet, but by keeping his eyes trained down his face, he was able to
see Mira now standing in the control room. She leaned forward over the
desk, reaching up toward the top of the window, her blouse taut against
her breasts and lifting to reveal a glittering stud in her navel as her fingers
clasped the pull of a black shade. She brought it down in one quick
motion, after which, just above the window, a dim red bulb went on.
As best he could with his head immobilized, Fred looked around
the room:
Steel trolley.
Jar of gel.
Red bulb.
Blacked-out window.
Galaxy wheeling above.
Stranger than fiction, blending tragedy and farce, How to Create the Perfect Wife is an engrossing tale of the radicalism, and deep contradictions, at the heart of the Enlightenment.
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