Page 11 of Entity

If I weren’t about to meet Eros, I would be losing myself in speculation about Ian’s plans for future drunken makeouts. But I’m too overwhelmed with anticipation, vibrating with excitement and nerves.

I’ve seen Eros of course. On television, in ads, even from very far away at certain high-security exhibitions downtown. But Eros isn’t for people like me. He costs more than a private jet and requires far more upkeep. I did plenty of research to prep for this. I know everything there is to know about Eros — everything available to the public, that is.

And maybe… if the book does really well, if I’m really lucky, one day, I could even afford myownEros.

“And here we are,” says Ian, stopping before a door marked with four letters in all caps: EROS. “Only one Eros lives with me. The rest are off-site. The great majority of testing and manufacturing takes place in my factories and labs.” He smiles at me, his glasses gleaming in the fluorescent light. “You’re about to meet my first successful Eros.”

“What did—” I begin, as if I’m going to ask a coherent question. But all thought flees when Ian opens the door.

All I can do is stare. The room is smallish and entirely white. A white circular dais graces the center of the floor. And standing casually on the dais, in the mode of Michelangelo’s David, is a young man with curly golden hair and smooth tan skin. A gauzy white toga drapes pleasingly from his angles.

He is Eros.

There is nothing to differentiate him from a statue. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe. He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like they took the most perfect parts of every ideal man throughout history and legend and combined them into one. He’s Alexander the Great. He is both Achilles and Patroclus. He’s Apollo, beautiful and terrifying. He is the god of love himself.

Ian glances at me, and for the first time, I see a hint of eagerness in his gaze. Like he’s finally allowed to be vulnerable here, at the feet of his holy child. Like he’s finally allowed to hope that he made something good.

“How do you like him?” Ian asks.

I lick my lips. My mouth has gone dry. “He’s beautiful,” I whisper. “Perfect. I thought… well, I’ve seen him before. I know what he looks like. But it’s not the same, is it? In person. Every pore, every strand of hair, the veins in his arms… It’s so intimate.” I move forward, almost by instinct.

“You may touch him,” Ian says. “He’s in sleep mode. Nothing you do or say will be picked up or remembered.”

“What, you don’t want him hearing all this praise?” I say laughingly. “Worried he’ll get a big head?”

Ian moves up to run a hand along Eros’s well-muscled thigh. He gazes up at his creation. “The more he gets to know you,” he says, “the better he can please you.”

A shiver rolls through me. I imagine what it must be like, having your own Eros. I wonder how he arrives. In a box? Do you unpack him like any other parcel, setting aside the cardboard and the Styrofoam until you reach his muscular warmth? I wonder if he needs to be lifted from the packaging, dead weight until he’s ready to be turned on.

I imagine him watching me, learning me, understanding me. And when I need him, he already knows what I want.

Does he also know what to say after? Does he murmur sweet nothings? Does he clean you up and kiss you goodnight?

“I want to say hello.”

“Everyone does,” Ian replies, rolling up his sleeves. He crouches, pressing something at Eros’s heel. Then he stands, arms crossed.

A ripple rolls through Eros. It’s almost imperceptible, maybe even imagined, but I’m sure I can see him come to life. He’s a statue one moment, and a human the next. He’s soft, malleable, and breathing. His chest rises and falls. His fingers flex. His nostrils flare on an inhale.

And then he opens his eyes.

His gaze flits to Ian, and then to me. He smiles slowly, like a lover just waking up in the morning after a long night of making love. I don’t believe Eros ever fucks. He makes love. Those long musician’s fingers, the sensual lips — those are an artist’s features. And sex must be his canvas.

“Good morning, Katherine Fox.” Eros’s voice is warm, like summer sunlight on the Mediterranean Sea.

My heart caves in.

When I was a kid, before my parents disappeared from my life, they took me to Italy. We visited a cathedral where monks still sang every evening at Vespers. I remember staring up at those stained glass windows, wondering if this was what it felt like to believe in God.

That’s how Eros’s voice makes me feel.

He’s not human. He’s a machine. From his well-formed feet to the curls on his head, he’s utterly synthetic. Those eyes, which seem to look through me and into the very depths of who I am — they’re mechanical. Every magnificent part of him is fake, manufactured, invented.

But I feel I’m in that cathedral again, looking up at God’s image andalmostbelieving.

“How do you know my name?” I ask.

Eros steps off the dais and moves toward me. His movements are smooth, unmarred by human imperfection. He lifts his hand to cup my face. His skin is warm, and his touch is gentle but confident. I can’t help but melt into him.

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