The Wait for Her Touch by Chad Clark

It’s November and the Music Be The Food flash fiction train keeps on rolling. This time around we’re looking at my favorite album of 2017–Pvris ‘All We Know Of Heaven, All We Need Of Hell’. The song is called “Walk Alone” and the first piece of fiction is by Chad Clark. Listen to this remarkable song and then read the outstanding fiction.

The Wait for Her Touch

She paused before leaving the apartment, long enough to turn back and scream at him.
“If that’s all you want out of this relationship, to hell with you and that thing! Fuck off.”
Veronica stormed out and hurled the door shut, causing the pictures nearby to rattle against the wall.
Trevor turned back to the desk, hunching over the circuit board. Leaning in with the soldering gun, he winced through the acrid smoke as it wafted up through the air. The sound of the door departed nearly as rapidly as Veronica and he was again left alone to the sounds of his work and that of the neighbors arguing through the balsa-like walls.
The components were complete and assembled, standing before him in all her glory. Since beginning this process, all he could think about was the absence of touch that she was yet able to provide. The coldness of Veronica’s embrace would be replaced by this, his perfect companion. He had whispered life into her and all that remained was these last few steps.
He had anticipated the argument, the indignant line in the sand that would be thrown down when Veronica discovered that this wasn’t a project for work. That she was here to stay. All for Trevor. Just a few more adjustments and work.
He was nearly there.
The final hurdle had been the physical touch of the thing, the impersonal caress of artificiality. He knew right away what he needed to inject, between the exoskeleton and the synthetic skin, in order to complete his other half. He knew what was needed and Veronica was there to be harvested.
It was in that moment when it finally occurred to him that the source of Veronica’s anger might have been something else. Not his inattention to her or his devotion to his new love. Perhaps it was the fact that she had discovered him siphoning away her own blood, night after night.
Blood that was essential to create that human touch. He needed it. She had it.
What right did she have to complain?
It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough.