I Sing the Body Electric. Ray Bradbury
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long green hair like wind through an ancient tree. Orange peels, napkins, papers, eggshells, and burnt kindling from night fires on the beaches; all the flotsam of the gaunt high people who stalked on the lone sands of the continental islands, people from brick cities, people who shrieked in metal demons down concrete highways, gone.
It rose softly, shimmering, foaming, into cool morning airs.
The green hair rose softly, shimmering, foaming, into cool morning airs. It lay in the swell after the long time of forming through darkness.
It perceived the shore.
The man was there.
He was a sun-darkened man with strong legs and a cow body.
Each day he should have come down to the water, to bathe, to swim. But he had never moved. There was a woman on the sand with him, a woman in a black bathing suit who lay next to him talking quietly, laughing. Sometimes they held hands, sometimes they listened to a little sounding machine that they dialed and out of which music came.
The phosphorescence hung quietly in the waves. It was the end of the season. September. Things were shutting down.
Any day now he might go away and never return.
Today he must come in the water.
They lay on the sand with the heat in them. The radio played softly and the woman in the black bathing suit stirred fitfully, eyes closed.
The man did not lift his head from where he cushioned it on his muscled left arm. He drank the sun with his face, his open mouth, his nostrils. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“A bad dream,” said the woman in the black suit.
“Dreams in the daytime?”
“Don’t you ever dream in the afternoon?”
“I never dream. I’ve never had a dream in my life.”
She lay there, fingers twitching. “God, I had a horrible dream.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know,” she said, as if she really didn’t. It was so bad she had forgotten. Now, eyes shut, she tried to remember.
“It was about me,” he said, lazily, stretching.
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, smiling to himself. “I was off with another woman, that’s what.”
“No.”
“I insist,” he said. “There I was, off with another woman, and you discovered us, and somehow, in all the mix-up, I got shot or something.”
She winced involuntarily. “Don’t talk that way.”
“Let’s see now,” he said. “What sort of woman was I with? Gentlemen prefer blondes, don’t they?”
“Please don’t joke,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”
He opened his eyes. “Did it affect you that much?”
She nodded. “Whenever I dream in the daytime this way, it depresses me something terrible.”
“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. “Anything I can get you?”
“No.”
“Ice-cream cone? Eskimo pie? A Coke?”
“You’re a dear, but no. I’ll be all right. It’s just that, the last four days haven’t been right. This isn’t like it used to be early in the summer. Something’s happened.”
“Not between us,” he said.
“Oh, no, of course not,” she said quickly. “But don’t you feel that sometimes places change? Even a thing like a pier changes, and the merry-go-rounds, and all that. Even the hot dogs taste different this week.”
“How do you mean?”
“They taste old. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve lost my appetite, and I wish this vacation were over. Really, what I want to do most of all is go home.”
“Tomorrow’s our last day. You know how much this extra week means to me.”
“I’ll try,” she said. “If only this place didn’t feel so funny and changed. I don’t know. But all of a sudden I just had a feeling I wanted to get up and run.”
“Because of your dream? Me and my blonde and me dead all of a sudden.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t talk about dying that way!”
She lay there very close to him. “If I only knew what it was.”
“There.” He stroked her. “I’ll protect you.”
“It’s not me, it’s you,” her breath whispered in his ear. “I had the feeling that you were tired of me and went away.”
“I wouldn’t do that; I love you.”
“I’m silly.” She forced a laugh. “God, what a silly thing I am.”
They lay quietly, the sun and sky over them like a lid.
“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “I get a little of that feeling you’re talking about. This place has changed. There is something different.”
“I’m glad you feel it, too.”
He shook his head, drowsily, smiling softly, shutting his eyes, drinking the sun. “Both crazy. Both crazy.” Murmuring. “Both.”
The sea came in on the shore three times, softly.
The afternoon came on. The sun struck the skies a grazing blow. The yachts bobbed hot and shining white in the harbor swells. The smells of fried meat and burnt onion filled the wind. The sand whispered and stirred like an image in a vast, melting mirror.
The radio at their elbow murmured discreetly. They lay like dark arrows on the white sand. They did not move. Only their eyelids flickered with awareness, only their ears were alert. Now and again their tongues might slide along their baking lips. Sly prickles of moisture appeared on their brows to be burned away by the sun.
He lifted his head, blindly, listening to the heat.
The radio sighed.
He put his head down for a minute.
She felt him lift himself again. She opened one eye and he rested on one elbow looking around, at the pier, at the sky, at the water, at the sand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, lying down again.
“Something,” she said.
“I thought I heard something.”
“The radio.”
“No, not the radio. Something else.”
“Somebody else’s radio.”
He didn’t answer. She felt his arm tense and relax, tense and relax. “Dammit,” he said. “There it is, again.”
They both lay listening.
“I don’t hear anything—”
“Shh!” he cried. “For God’s sake—”
The waves broke on the shore, silent mirrors, heaps of melting, whispering glass.
“Somebody singing.”
“What?”
“I’d swear it was someone singing.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, listen.”
They did that for a while.
“I don’t hear a thing,” she said, turning very cold.
He