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I hand him the stack. “Go ahead.”
He takes the stack and moves, turning his chair so it’s facing mine. I mirror him, and we sit facing one another. He’s relaxed in his chair, one arm casually thrown over an armrest, the other propped up, holding a card up to his face. I sit with my legs crossed, laced fingers holding one knee, watching him. Our chairs are so close that my shin rests against the front of his seat, between his legs.
“Alright.” Zach sounds quite relaxed. He glances up at me and gives me a lazy smile. “Time to test thatOthelloknowledge. Why don’t you tell me your best reputation quotes?”
I reel off my quotes one by one. Zach nods at each of them, lays down the card when I’m done, picks up the next.
“Three quotes about deception and betrayal.”
I recite them. Zach’s eyes flick up to mine. “You’re good.”
“Thank you.”
“Let’s lift the mood a little,” Zach smirks. “Your best quotes on prejudice and racism.”
I suppress a smile and recite them. Zach nods. “Cheerful stuff, huh? Alright. How about masculinity and honour?”
“My favourite.” I give him a dry smile and recite my quotes.
“Love,” he says next.
I recite my quotes. He cycles through the cards, testing me on each theme and character. After he tests me on the final card—Iago as a villain—he half-tosses it down on the rest of the pile.
“That was perfect. Word for word on every single one of those quotes.”
He suddenly sits up in his chair. Because he was relaxed back in his seat, I could sit close to his chair without being close to him, but now that he’s sat up, I find myself face to face with him.
He gives me a half-grin, showing off those straight white teeth, the gleam of his smiling cheek, the two dimples carved deep by the sharp structure of his face. My breath catches.
“Tell me the truth,” he says in a lowered voice. I swallow, suddenly nervous. “Are you actually a machine?”
His lips are inches from mine. I know he expects me to be the one to back down; I’malwaysthe one to back down. But the tension between us is heavy and electric as a storm—I can’t pull away from it, and I refuse to.
“Do I look like a machine?” I ask. “Do I feel like a machine?”
“Hm.” He hums in an overdramatisation of thought. “Certainly, you look like you could have been made in a lab, yes.” He brushes his fingers over the knuckles of my hands, which are still propped on my knee. “Your skin is cold to the touch.” He lifts his hand to my neck, pressing two fingers right underneath my jaw, his thumb resting in the dip between my collarbones. “There is a pulse,” he murmurs, “but that could just be excellent engineering for the sake of verisimilitude.”
He doesn’t move his hand away, and a shiver courses through me. He responds to it with a thoughtful tilt of his head.
“Are you cold, Theo?”
“Always.”
I look at his mouth. I know he wants to kiss me.
“Maybe that’s why you’re always cold,” Zach says in a hushed tone. “Because you’re not a real person.”
“I’m a real person,” I answer tightly. “I’m as real as you. I have skin and bones and a mind and a heart and blood running through my veins—just like you.”
“Then how are you so perfect?”
The mocking edge has vanished from Zach’s voice.
“I’m far from perfect. I’m cold and tired and stressed and angry and sad.”
It’s a more honest response than I intended to give him. Maybe part of me wants him to know how broken I am.
Maybe I don’t want him to be in awe of me anymore. Maybe I don’t want to be his equal, his rival, his nemesis. Maybe part of me wants him to see me for what I really am and pity me. Maybe I want him to want to fix me, to protect me, to take care of me.
