• Just a stroke of sunshine broke through the ratty old blinds that never shut anymore, absorbed by everything now that it was summer, instead of just reflecting off of it all. It woke me up every morning at the same time. Rolling over, my nose pressed into the folds of sheets and the pillow that sat on that side of the bed, and something brought a whiff of Jason’s scent through them, like it had been preserved within the fabric for all these years, holding out against the hundreds of washings. It wasn’t his cologne, but his natural scent; how the bathroom used to smell after he took shower, a mix of his soap, shampoo, and shaving cream. Of course he had his own smell too, just the way his skin was naturally, after working out and drenched in sweat as well.

    I tried to remember the last time I caught that scent. Actually smelled it straight from his skin, or clothes, and honestly couldn’t. It might have been that last time we laid in bed together, because after that it seemed like we never got close enough for me to catch it off him. This was routine though, and I curled up in that spot, prolonging the moment for just a little longer to continue getting that smell and bring up every memory that I could to wonder what I did wrong.

    The coffee maker rings, notifying me that it’s time to get up, that it’s starting to brew. So I do: get up, shower, brush teeth, get dressed, make breakfast, get coffee, sit down with paper and read while eating, sit around to do the crossword, put on shoes, leave. While I’m in the shower I think about that summer afternoon we stayed in bed, sweating with the broken fan squeaking as it went ‘round and ‘round, trying to cool us off in vain. We were panting and drenched in our own liquids for hours until we decided to shower together. It was surprising when he wrapped his arms around me from behind, and it was like I could still feel his hands roaming over my skin, memorizing each curve and individual flaw with the nerves in his finger tips, the soap running down our tangled limbs as we forgot the running water and stood in the corner to kiss. It was our first shower together.

    On the subway heading downtown, I almost spilled my coffee because of two screaming kids fighting with their mother. She was dressed well as were her children, and she kept telling them to cover their necks, but they wouldn’t. The rich were too good to show the ports on their napes in public, and she wanted the same for her kids, but it didn’t really matter. We all knew they had them under those scarves, bandanas, or collars. The son, dressed in suit pants and a button up shirt that looked at oldest to be eight, was tugging down his collar, showing the blunt black port in the back. He scratched from time to time, and I could see him as a kid when they were first installed. We grew up together, and he always picked at it the same way, though he liked to cover his up; the families were very similar looking. Glancing behind them, a teenage boy sat in front of them and from my angle you could see the scars around his neck and the blood under his finger nails from trying to rip it out on his own, and I think that’s what sparked the argument. Even though my stop wasn’t for another two stops, I got out at the nearest one and took the back roads to work.

    Half way through one of the alleys, a door opened to one of those town houses that all share walls in rows where you can’t tell the difference between one and the next. A middle-aged woman with her hair in a messy bun, wearing a cloth apron over her plain dress stepped out barefoot. She held a bundle of blankets, the top of an infant’s head visible. Looking at me while she opened the top of the dumpster, she sighed a little exasperated, “I accidentally hit ‘is switch.” She shook her head and deposited the body before disappearing into her apartment-esque place. I wondered if she’d already filled out the paper work and exited the alley to cross the street. Two blocks later I was heading down the stairs and through the doors of Genesis Labs.

    The front consisted of security: a guard and desk, eye scanner, and even a place to swipe your card with your given number. Once you’ve been verified, there’s a place to hang your coat or jacket, and you trade up for a lab coat. Inside there are several areas, each dedicated to a specific subject of research. I work in sector C-1. It’s a full blown lab all in itself for cloning and stem cell research. We get orders for certain organs, sometimes limbs, and sometimes people just want a loved one back. Once someone is born, the system has a chain of their DNA which can then be recreated and basically grown in a test tube. You can have someone back, or make your own personal mini-me there, whatever the hell you want.

    “We have to get twelve done today,” our leader informs us. He’s just the top scientist in our field, and twelve means little breaks. I go with Marty to our table and we get to work, picking which assignment we want to do. It’s not as much work as anyone thinks, but it costs a lot, given the ingredients. I’ve spent everyday in this lab for the past five years, and many more before that. I guess that contributed to how things ended. Jason was a writer. He wasn’t published, but he’d sit at the computer for hours without even looking away, typing and backspacing and typing with mugs of coffee all around. Sometimes he’d stop typing and I wouldn’t hear anything, but his eyes would be puffy afterward, and red. Sometimes he’d show me the story or poem he wrote, and other times he said he couldn’t, but usually he kept them all in folders around the computer, stacked on the shelves like real books. He could have been published easily, but he said, “It’s too sad and complicated for anyone to get it the way I want them to.” It was either that or just him believing he’d never be wanted by any publisher. When I offered for him to start his own company, he just said no without any explanation. I guess he didn’t have a real job, and it was more of a passion.

    Order No. 36579: Male arm, 13x28 inches, Caucasian.

    Order No. 36581: Eye. Blue.

    These are all two people can start on in a day. It takes a week to several, to months, depending on what type of order we have. Babies take a full nine months. That’s the best we can do with cloning, too. No full-grown people just come out, and they’re not expected to be the same, either. People still expect that though.

    In the middle of getting the genetics ready for the eye, Marty nudges my side.

    “So, you still haven’t told me your thoughts on all of this. Or why you’re even here. I mean, I want discounts to save my family, and to just help people. You’ve never really showed that much interest.”

    “Why do we work to save when no one cares that much about losing people anyway? The medical industry may have gone up but the empathy and sympathy, and just pure caring went down the drain.”

    “That’s not what it’s about, though. You still haven’t answered. Are you avoiding it?”

    Marty came about three years ago, transferring from another state. He had no clue about anything before that.

    “I don’t know. I’m just ambivalent on it. If I don’t work here, it’s not like it’s going to go away, y’know? It’s not much of a protest; they’ll just save money if I’m not here. I don’t know if I’m for it all, though. I don’t know if I’d ever order anything… at least not anything too big.”

    He nodded and we continued working, growing just another part.

    What time we get off differs everyday, just depending on how much work we get done. After, though, we just go home as instructed. Anyone left after a certain time doesn’t get it so well with the monitors. If it’s early enough we all eat together at some restaurant. Tonight was late, so we all go straight home. My port hookup is attached to the headboard, but I haven’t used it since the morning I woke up alone. I don’t know if anyone else hasn’t used theirs, but no one knows when the last dream occurred. I dream every night, it’s vivid with sound and colour and even smells. I’ve tried looking them up to find out more, but since people stopped having them, people stopped studying them. Each one is weaker than the night before, the memories they stem from fading just a bit more, like an actual healing scar. I end up lying there for awhile, wondering if one day I’ll just forget it all ever happened.

    I decide against that idea.

    The coffee pot rings again, and I’m dragged away from the one day I ever went to the beach. It was cold, so no one got in the water, but the breeze carried the fresh air scent with salt and third world pollution. There were actual birds in the air, and sand that melted around your weight and no one stopped us from holding hands outside. I lost my favourite hat to the wind because they said the sun would damage our skin. It was one of a kind, made especially for me, and I always thought some fish might make a nice home with it.

    Stumbling back into my apartment, I got ready the same way and left for work, actually riding the subway the entire way. On my desk, there’s a card waiting from my mom. It just has trivial things about how I’m doing, if I’ve met anyone, how work is going, and so on. I slide it into the top drawer and lock it before meeting Marty to start working. We get through almost an entire order for a hand when we’re told to break. We all break at the same time because it’s actually more efficient. I tell Marty I have something to work on as they all go to get a quick drink. Instead, I spend the next half hour looking up his information in the DNA system, and of course he’s there.

    Jason Alberta: deceased. It lists his birth and death date, how old he was, all of his tiny details, and last there’s an extra file containing his exact strand. It tells me it’s never been used for anything, meaning he’s never had something made for him, and he’s never been cloned. I can’t even count how many times I’ve looked and debated. It would be like having his child, or having him as a child. I could at least have him back. He always wanted a boy to play ball with inside the house and break all of my expensive things that neither of us liked. They’d aim for it on purpose, and go out for ice cream, and act like spies in the middle of the night.

    Everyone rushes back in simultaneously and we keep working, even later than the night before and go home on the last stops of the night.

    The coffee pot doesn’t ring the next morning because we’re forced to have one day off. I go to the park and sit in the grass, watching a pair of kids play together around this tree. Under a piece of bark is a little note I’ve read a million times, because it was personally mine. The little boy has thick brown, curly hair that flops over his eyes. His face is smooth and covered in freckles. The girl, who’s younger, is exactly the opposite. Her hair is blonde, only lighter because of the sun, the few strands that exist bouncing around her porcelain face and over her shoulders. They’re both in white turtle necks even though it’s warm outside. Just as the little girl ends up plopping into my lap, their mother starts wailing for them to come to her. The boy complies, but the girl keeps sitting still, just staring at my eyes. She has huge, gray ones, the colour of the sky that day I sat on the beach. She asks to see my port, and as I’m showing her, her mom is running over screaming at her for being so rude.

    “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind.” I try not to act too smug or sarcastic, seeing as she’s completely covered up, but I can’t help it in those situations.

    “Get over here, Isabelle,” she says ignoring me.

    “That’s a pretty name.” I turn to the girl and she grins, showing a gap in the middle of her front teeth. Even so, she’s beautiful.

    Her mother grabbed her hand and they were gone before either of us could say anything else. It’d be creepy to see him smiling back up at me again, in a form I haven’t seen in fifteen or so years. And I’d start crying again because it wouldn’t be enough, only enough to make me remember more than I do now. I’d start to think about how he walked, compare it to the new version, and wonder if he’d get too sad too. Then everyday I could feel his hand within mine, how the air carried our arms when we swung them between us, or which blanket we used on the couch to watch movies together. And I could remember those nights he didn’t come home, worrying until I passed out from alcohol, and the times where I could tell he wanted nothing to do with anything, and yet I didn’t try to help because it was completely hopeless.

    At home, I’m in the stainless steel kitchen, cleaning a cup stain off of a counter while something bakes slowly in the oven. It’s perfect for a narcissist because your reflection is in every appliance, hiding in every corner and distorted in every direction. Water still comes out as tap, so we bought a filter together, and it comes out crystal clear and clean. Just above that, there’s the one picture he liked to keep out of us together. It’s folded back so I can just see him smiling back at me and pretend he’s there, just kind of far away, blowing me a kiss goodbye before I leave for work, and smiling like a happy puppy when I get home. People may not last forever, but some things last a long time. For instance: memories, pictures, emotions. I can still love him, though he won’t feel it back. Memories become blurry still, and pictures can get damaged. It’s still longer than human life. Even cloning can’t keep that going.

    Somehow I end up in the middle of the room, staring around at the lack of decoration and personality this excuse for a home contains. The walls are plain and the paint that was there from the beginning is still peeling. The only thing that sticks out is in one corner, where a small to-do list is held on one wall. The first thing listed is to paint the walls. There are five more things on the list as well as a date that’s back just after we moved in. Moving into the office, I notice that the bookshelves haven’t changed one bit. There are two, divided by certain things. The novels are all kept on one in autobiographical order, each one remembered for their date and reason. The remaining bookshelf is divided itself. There are stacks on the top, the ones I can read from time to time, though it hurts more than cure the curiosity. They are filled with his novels and stories and poetry, all the ones he wanted me to read, or just let me read. On the bottom half are all the ones he wouldn’t show me. The dust makes the titles unreadable.

    The next morning, as I’m wondering again what I did wrong to make things how they are, something pops up on the television next to the bed. It’s his picture, but it’s one I never remember taking. He’s not happy, but he’s not sad. He looks content, sleeping in bed. But not too far up, the light around the port indicator is red. Slowly it turns blue, and eventually turns to gray and fades into its natural colour. That’s when I woke up. That switch next to the hook up was turned to ‘off’. There’s ‘sleep’ and ‘off’. Off was the easy way of suicide if you really didn’t want to get messy. Actually, it was pretty much the only way these days. He never said anything was troubling him, but it was me that pushed him away, and I turned off the T.V. It’s been twenty-five days since I thought of that image. That’s a step back.