UI/UX
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<p>
My client washed ashore the other day. Didn’t believe it
‘till I saw that article in the local news and I knew
there must have been a reason she ignored my texts all day.
Didn’t even bother to leave me on read and I thought maybe
she just wasn’t interested anymore but really it’s ‘cause
she was dead. I wondered for a moment whether it was my fault
‘cause I hadn’t finished her request: she asked me to code her
a body—a new body!—yes, that’s what she’d said; I only laughed.
<br><br> “I don’t program bodies,” I said, “I program Web
pages.” And she laughed too. <br><br> “I have webbed fingers.”
She held up her hand like she was showing off an engagement ring.
“See? Ain’t that close enough?” <br><br> And I think it’s because
of the sound of her voice but I said okay. And she dissected herself,
opened her skin in front of my eyes to show me what she could find.
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<div id = “cavity” class = “capsule” onhover = “expand()” onclick = “excavate()”>
<p> <b>i.</b> <br><br>
“Start with my chest first,” she told me. “It just feels <i>so-o-o</i> empty.”
<br><br> “How do you expect me to fix that?” I asked.
<br><br>She sighed. “I don’t know. Just fill it up with something.
Algae, anemones, anything will do.”
<br><br>“Anything?” <br><br> “Anything.” <br><br>
That’s when I began to wonder whether it was possible to
code a girl out of gigabytes, a monster out of markup and memory.
“I can only do text boxes,” I warned her. “Headings and text boxes and
buttons and the rest. But I don’t know if I can program love.”
<br><br>
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<div id = “ribcage” class = “shield” onhover = “brace()” onclick = “shatter()”>
<p> <b>ii.</b> <br><br>
“That’s okay,” she said quickly. “I don’t think I really
need love anyway.”<br><br>
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<div id = “heart” class = “hopeful” onhover = “pulse()” onclick = “pound()”>
<p> <b>iii.</b> <br><br>
“Oh,” I said. I paused. “Bad breakup?”
<br><br>“I suppose you could say that.”
<br><br>“I’m sorry.”
<br><br>I only half meant it. I wasn’t here to play therapist
but thankfully, she didn’t dive in. “Don’t be,” she said.
“There’s nothing you can do about it. Unless..."
<br><br>“Unless?”
<br><br> “Yes, unless. Unless you program me
a new heart.” <br><br> “I can’t do that.” I said. <br><br>
She shook her head. “Sure you can. You’re a clever creature.
And I have no specifications, as long as it doesn’t break.”
<br><br>
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<p> <b>iv.</b> <br><br>
“And while you’re at it,” she said, “why don’t you program
me a new set of lungs?”
<br><br> “What for?” I asked.
<br><br> “I have asthma,” she said.
I sat there thinking, <i>that was the most normal thing she’s s
aid to me all day</i> when she added, “I think I sing too much and
I sing too loud and I want you to help me to tone it down.”
<br><br>“I don’t think that has anything to do with your asthma,” I said.
<br><br> “Whatever. As long as I quit wheezing
when you’re done.” <br><br>
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<div id = “spine” class = “staircase” onhover = “curl()” onclick = “snap()”>
<p> <b>v.</b> <br><br>
“Last thing,” she said.
<br><br> “Last?”
<br><br> “Yes, last. I pinky promise.” She held up one webbed
pinkie as if expecting me to latch on. I stared at it until she
withdrew. “Can you program me a new spine?”
<br><br>“New spine! What’s wrong with your old one?
You’re sitting pretty straight to me.”
<br><br>“My old one was for swimming,” she said.
“My old one was attached to a tail.”
<br><br>“You don’t have a tail, ” I said.
<br><br>“My old tail is gone.” She lifted an eyebrow.
“I got rid of it myself, and be glad I didn’t make you code me
a new set of legs.”<br><br>
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<p>
She thanked me and she stood up to leave. I watched her walk
all the way to the door, searching for scales but her
billowing skirt hid any fishiness she may have possessed.
<br><br>
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<p>
In all honesty, though she invaded my texts, I didn’t plan to
work on her project until I picked up the newspaper today. I
recognized her portrait, sprightly and smiling in spite of
the sickly spine and the shortness of breath,
the symptoms wracking her asynchronous organs as we spoke.
<i>Drowned</i>, said the headline. <i>Suicide,</i>
speculated the source. I wondered if our meeting was some
twisted sort of foreshadowing. I could feel her lungs
flooding with my guilt, the lungs that sang
too much and too loud. Did she drown in song?
<br><br>I turned the page. It was a story about a siren
who had fallen in love with a boy she’d sucked into the sea.
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<!--I thought about what she looked like when she visited my office.
Pale, as if she’d spent her nights staring into the phone or maybe
struggling to swim or maybe on the shore, trying to revive a regret.
The article announced that an autopsy was under way. I wondered what
they’d find. Dead girl bloated with bay, or perhaps fish bones.-->
<!--I wondered if I could code her back to life.--->
<!--Maybe she was a siren. Or maybe she was delusional. Was there a
difference, either way?-->
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