You go for a walk together. This time without holding hands, and you try to see the world with Anna's wiring. But your body distracts you. The rubbing of your thighs together is disconcerting. The ponderous weight of your breasts is painful, even under the tight support of your brassiere, which cuts into your ribs. Colista, meanwhile, is bumping into every low-hanging tree branch.
Sally Caves
"You're so tall. I feel like I have to stoop."
"You do. I'm gonna need that forehead again, you know."
The flowers are spectacular. You notice the birds. the cry of the cardinal makes you look up. Against the green leaves, it's brighter than you've ever seen it before. Without thinking, you imitate it.
"Perdue! Perdue! Perdue!" you sing. And then:
"That's something you'd do!" you whisper to Colista, and Colista nods, smiles pensively.
What's dualism?" says Colista.
"The old notion that mind and body were something separate," you say.
"Doesn't this experiment support dualism?" says Colista.
"No. Because our two mind-bodies are being merged, not separated." You launch into a lecture on functionalism and behavioralism. These experiments, along with the neuralnet industry, will seriously complicate positions taken by behavioralists, you say, who contend that interior mental states can never be proved. The "black box" of the other...
But Colista is still hung up on dualism. "If you can transmit your mind into my body, then they're separate."
You tell her it's too complicated. She sighs. You note how men who pass you try to look into your eyes. And then into your bosom. You're both proud, for Anna, and embarrassed and angered. You don't want these men, and you don't want them wanting you. You mean Anna.
Colista saunters to the newsstand, pretending to be male. Is she pretending? You move to the curb, bend to pick up the red feather in the gutter. It would never have caught your notice before.
"Love your tits!" shouts the man out of the slow passing truck.
"Suck my dick," you say without reflection, and give him the finger.
The surprise on his face is unforgettable.
"That was original," says Colista. "Wish I'd thought of that when I was a woman."
You walk another block, noting the faces that you recognize, but you can't imagine how.
"Hey, Brian!" says an old friend of yours. He crosses the street to greet you. But he's made contact with Colista. Colista looks to you uncertainly for guidance. "Oh," you say, picking up the cue. "You must be..."
And the name doesn't come to you. For Christ's sake, he's a good friend, but you can't remember his name. You can't remember where you met him. It's like your corpus callosum has been cut. You see him with your mind's eye, but he's not stored in Anna Colista's visual or verbal memory. Some neural transmission is not being sent, burned in your real brain over there.
"Mike," says Colista. She's never even known about him. "How ya doin'?"
Can't complain. How 'bout you? How's things at Rand?"
"Good." Colista's filling in. You still can't remember this guy. "You've met Anna, haven't you?"
"Hi, Mike, happy to meet you," you say. He gives your hand a longer squeeze than you like.
"So." This wasn't like meeting Lisa at the concert. Lisa was in the forefront of your mind. Lisa got transferred. You have that tightening in your gut.
"We need to get back," you say.
When you get home, you're not feeling well. There's a fuzziness in your head, as though it's slightly detached from your neck. There's a gnawing sensation under your intestines. It puts pressure on your bladder. It's still difficult for you to go to the bathroom, to remember to turn around and sit. Today you have a hard time starting the flow, and it burns. You cough, and a sharp pain shoots through what should have been your balls.
"I'm not feeling so good," you tell Colista. "I gotta stretch out."
Colista comes and sits at the edge of the couch, a specter of yourself looming over you. Your crotch feels uncomfortable. Wounded.
"You've got a bit of a bladder infection."
"I think I've got your period, too."
"Look, we planned it this way. So you'd experience that."
"I'm not complaining..."
"I'll get you some cranberry juice."
There's just the slightest air of complacency in Colista's manner.
"Is that how I look when I'm being smug?" you say, and Colista throws back your head and laughs.