Mechanical Bride …Finale …Male Expectations

The tyranny of masculinity and patriarchy has been much more deadly to men than to women. It hasn't killed our hearts but men's hearts, silenced them; cut them off.
― Eve Ensler

Impossible Dream

I’m feeling totally out of my element at the cocktail party and why shouldn’t I? Afterall, I can’t claim I’m only human—I’m not—I shouldn’t be subject to that frailty.

Brock has programmed me for success and my brain is a hybrid of flesh, circuits and computer chips. I’m operating under the lastest updated version of AI and without excuse.

So then, why am I making so many mistakes? Is there some flaw in my prograaming, some interface error bridging flesh and machine?

Brock is obviously disppointed, particularly in the way I related to his clients.

I wouldn’t blame him if he pulled me from the party and disconnected my functions.

But he doesn’t do that—he hesitates for a moment and then comes to a conclusion.

“Okay, we’ll try again. Go back and circulate, Audrey—you can begin by joining that group over there.”

He points to a small circle of men formed around Ella and Sara.

I dutifully head toward the women, being careful to stay politely aloof, but two of the men spot me as I cross the room and invite me into their group.

The attention shifts to me, and away from Elle and Sara.

A drink is offered, along with several compliments and the occasional sly snicker. Several men compete for my attention.

Elle brazenly stares at me with undisguised hatred. Sara feigns disinterest. I try to reach out and include them in the conversation, but Sara acts as if I’m not there and Elle is bristling with electricity.

I want the floor to swallow me up, or Brock to gently take me by the elbow and guide me to safety—but no such luck.

“So, you belong to Brock,” one of the men leers, “lucky guy.”

Sara looks askance.

“I suppose he wants you in that dress,” she whispers, “because he’s still carrying a torch for Vanessa.”

At the mention of Brock's former flame, Elle’s eyes grow dark and malevolent.

“Don’t mention that bitch—Brock’s just stuck in a time warp trying to exorcise a ghost. Mind you, he’s got the money and means to indulge his angst.”

The atmosphere in the room is energized.

“Say,” one of the men says to his friend, “I think we have the makings here of a good cat fight—these two tigers are spitting mad and want to take back their turf.”

Elle is incensed. She turns upon the man, eyes flashing. He wilts under her withering gaze and slinks away into the shadows.

I watch the poetry of gestures closely, trying to discern the significance. Why is the man so afraid?

My ruminations are interrupted by a curious change in Sara’s demeanor. Her face unexpectedly brightens as if it were a dull neon sign suddenly flickering and springing to life.

“Brock! I was wondering where you were.”

Her voice has a strained, nervous gaiety. I turn in the direction of her gaze and see Brock emerge from the shadows.

At his approach, Elle’s face shifts from an expression of pure hatred to a blank look of indifference. She appears as blasé as a fashion model.

I'm reminded of the way actors in a Greek tragedy use masks to hide their personality.

“So, are we all getting along—or at least managing to be civil?” Brock asks testily.

“Of course, we’re getting along,” Sara pouts in a little girl voice. “I was just remarking on Audrey’s dress.”

Brock’s eyes are fierce. “Really? I’m sure you were.”

The bitterness in his voice causes Sara to tremble. A nervous smile keeps flickering across her face, making her ruby lips twitch.

Elle tries to feign nonchalance, but even she is intimidated, and averts her eyes to avoid his stare.

I feel trapped in a film noir full of menacing shadows—and lit only by a flickering red neon sign.

Brock shakes his head in exasperation. Whatever reaction he expected, he didn't get.

“Come along, Audrey, we have to do the meets and greets.”

He takes my elbow and guides me away pausing only briefly to call back over his shoulder, “Enjoy the party, girls.”

I glance back at Elle—she’s regained her composure. Her eyes flash back at me in simmering hatred.

I would not want to be alone with her in a midnight alley.

Thankfully, the rest of the night passes uneventfully. Brock is pleased—he’s managed to secure the backing of several investors who have bought into his retro Sixties campaign and new line of male cosmetics.

It's three a.m. when the suite is empty again. Brock and I are alone and he sits opposite me in his black leather chair, staring.

He appraises me as if I were a painting—studying each nuance, each detail of my dress and appearance.

Sara’s voice comes back to haunt me.

I suppose he wants you in that dress because he’s still carrying a torch for Vanessa.

I want to ask him about Vanessa, but can’t. I’m frozen—caught in the amber of the moment.

In half-darkness Brock’s eyes glare—his large fish eyes pass over me and I’m magnified in aquarium glass.

“You did well tonight, Love—you were almost perfect.”

“I tried Brock—I really did.”

He sips at his wine. “I know. You did very well.”

He gets out of his chair and leans against the large picture window, staring out at the Toronto skyline. He seems to be searching for something in the colored jumble of lights.

He’s staring into the distance, talking in a sleepy, far-away voice—barely audible, as if he’s thinking aloud.

“I’m a lucky man. Not many get a second chance--Vanessa be damned! I'll eventually get it right--it's just so hard to predict all the variables.

He turns back to face me.

“Well, at least people keep investing in me and make the dream possible."

He smiles. "We make a good team.”

A sensation of warmth passes through me.

He comes over, and pats my shoulder affectionately.

I squeeze his hand, and watch as he picks up the remote and gently presses a key.

Fireworks burst and fall slowly as I slide into the cool oblivion of machine sleep.

To be continued…

© 2026, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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