Thoughts and Intents of the Heart—A Short Story

As he smiled at her, warm shivers of anticipation coursed through her veins.

That’s not right. Shivering involves nerves and skin. Tingling in your nerves might still be physiologically inaccurate, but much more reasonable.

Becca sighed. If it wasn’t bad enough that almost every other woman aged 25-32 also went by “Becca,” her boyfriend’s fascination with accurate detail probably placed him near the pot of gold on the autism spectrum.

Brandon frowned, annoyed. This was your idea, remember you said: “You’re not empathetic. Let’s get empath implants. I want to know the thoughts and intents of your heart forever.”

And now you get mad because my brain doesn’t flow like a poorly edited romance novel, and because every so often I spend an hour contemplating important theories like the practicality of Cat Woman’s whip versus the Batarang.

She looked into his eyes. Glowered, really, remembering the last time she gazed into those light blue orbs—Irises, actually, the orb is my cornea—and longed to know the swirl of thoughts behind them.

Surely they were mostly thoughts of her, and of Jesus. They’d been connected by electrodes, but the technician pulling the switch, the beeping, and the monitors flashing all seemed peripheral in that moment. Light so bright it hurt, the sensation of whiplash, and the torrent of jumbled thoughts threatening to uncouple their very souls from reality.

I wonder if a new Larry Boy movie is on Netflix. Could I use a cucumber with tiny plungers to unclog my toilet? Wait, which thoughts are mine? I want orchids at my wedding. They’re expensive, and it would make the other Beccas jealous. What color, though? Teal is such a good color, but only on a ’98 Trans Am. Aquamarine is prettier. It looked fly on Alonzo Mourning when he was a Charlotte Hornet. I think his kidneys worked then. What have I done? This is stupid. Why are there kidney beans but no spleen beans? Spleen beans sound better. When I was little, I didn’t know that canned soup with letters for dinner meant Mom was lazy, and if I swirled my spoon and it spelled a word it was a very important word and I would repeat it for hours. What have I done? Your memories are dumb.

“Let’s take you home, Brandon.” Becca started the car, glancing at the moon as her hair and porcelain skin shimmered from the silver rays.

Please stop narrating your life inside your head. Nothing is shimmering through the fogged up windows of your Nissan Versa.

She gazed at him wistfully as she shifted into first. There had to be a way to get Brandon out of her head. Easy now, it’s not all bad, sometimes I can immediately feel your disgust when I’ve got Cheetoh dust on my sweatpants and it saves us an hour long argument. Besides, your nostrils are flaring. I don’t think you can be wistful while breathing like that.

Becca exhaled loudly, willing herself into peace and tranquility as the air from her lungs swirled past her perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth.  

Is she accelerating toward that truck on purpose?

Writer: Dripping Ether