Love, at the atomic level, is an electron. Whether an electron shared, given, or stolen, is not an issue, for these are human descriptors and electrons are not human. The chemical reactions that magically create the illusion of love within the human brain require the mass transfer of these virtually massless particles.
Similarly, one may state that at a quantum level, love can spontaneously appear and disappear, pop impossibly into existence in a vacuum and then promptly and equally impossibly disappear, a phenomenon possessing a most elegant explanation that it does not actually need, for explanation is again a purely human necessity.
As we approach absolute zero, chemical reactions become less and less likely. Particles become inert. Still. Silent. And therefore, as we approach absolute zero, love inevitably dies.
However, such extremes are not in fact necessary, as love is essentially a fragile entity. It is widely believed that an increment of a mere two or three degrees will produce the same tragic outcome. If this is true, and if we carry on the way we are, we will soon witness love's demise first hand.
*
In the world I habitually inhabit, the harsh physical world where death is but a careless miscalculation away, one substance rules all. Its solid state does not cover the ground: it is the ground. It fills the air and blocks out the sky. Some days, it is the sky. Savage beyond belief, beautiful beyond words, it blinds, it burns, it scours. At its most violent, it can transmute bare flesh into bloody broken sores in a matter of minutes. At its most benign, it brings a sweet, numbing death in a handful of hours. Without a great deal of training and specialist protective clothing, one simply could not exist here. Without a particularly determined and enquiring mind, one would not wish to.
*
I saw her first.
An outline. A slight but sufficiently unnatural change to the icy landscape. My experienced eyes spotted her. My survival skills saved her. But, despite my unquestioned abilities, it was undoubtedly Chance who decided the moment. The moment our histories would collide. And that, I suppose, would normally have been the end of it and Chance would just as easily have set us on our separate ways. However, with that first glance into her frail and frightened eyes, our destinies had somehow become entangled. And the more we struggled, the more entangled we became. The ensuing knot was devilishly complex. Impossible to analyse. Inconceivably difficult to solve. In the end, I gave up. So did she. What our minds could not undo, our bodies mirrored with a jumbled skein of limbs, a muddled scramble of intertwined insatiable flesh. The first time took mere moments, yet its effects would scar us for a lifetime.
In short, I fucked her. And she fucked me. Just as we together have fucked everything.
Out here, where there is nothing, nothing but ice and cold and death, it is blindingly obvious that the world is irrevocably damaged. We are sitting on top of the evidence. Directly on top. It is moving, slithering, slowly sliding to the sea. Every month, we fire up the engines and caterpillar back to our home co-ordinates, and every second of every hour of every day, the glacier carries us away. Year on year, the ice beneath our mobile home is thinning. Year on year, replenishing inland snowstorms grow less and less frequent. One day soon the evidence will simply collapse into the ocean. And with its demise, the seas will rise. Cities will vanish between the waves and refugees will swarm inland like army ants, stripping the land, consuming everything in their path. Society will collapse as surely as the glacier will collapse, and civilisation as we know it will come to an end.
*
Like almost everyone on the station, Maria 'Mia' Sparrow was a scientist. Like her pseudo film-star-name-sake, she was blonde, short-haired, petite and waif-like, hardly the stuff of Antarctic explorers, and yet here she was, working, contributing, pulling her weight like some burly marine. Until the incident that almost claimed her, I had merely acknowledged her in passing, had stolen glances at the legendary nipples that almost poked through her too-tight tee-shirts, but that was all. She was simply one of the fifty-seven. Most of the time, I was too busy, too tired, or too distracted, to even care that she was female.
Sitting at her bedside, waiting for her to wake, aching to once again look into those fragile eyes, I knew things would never be the same. Now I cared. In that brief, incoherent moment out on the raging ice, she had given herself over to me, entrusted her future to me. I, in turn, had accepted. And so here I was, self-appointed guardian of this damaged woman, giving all of my free time to see my mission through, to monitor her recovery, measure her progress, till she was once again back on her feet and fully independent. Doc had assured me that the loss of the ring and little fingers on her left hand would be no impediment to her career, nor would the loss of her little toes. Her face, though seared by the elements, would soon be almost like new, while her half-ears could be easily hidden by longer hair. Internally, I had laughed at that: even I, who barely knew her, understood she would never grow her hair; she would wear her imperfect ears like a badge of honour.
*
'Mia?'
She was stirring, grimacing, as if suddenly aware of acute pain, though the analgesics in her system would surely be working hard to numb it. I tried again.
'Mia? It's okay. You're in sick-bay. You were a bit banged up when we found you, though Doc says you're going to be fine.'
I gently rested a reassuring hand on her bare shoulder. She calmed. She stilled. Cracked lips moved but no sound came.
'Thank you.'
Then she opened her eyes. She opened her eyes and gazed into mine, and I instantly knew I loved her.
After trying and failing to lift her head, her eyes closed again and she drifted into sleep. Alone in the hushed semi-darkness, I sat and cried for all I had gained, for all I might lose, then sat and cried some more, till the nurse came to change her dressings.
*
'We're going to fuck, aren't we?'
It was a statement rather than a question. A week had passed and she was sitting up, her unkempt head resting on plush pristine pillows. Most of the dressings had been removed and her skin was returning to its usual lustre. Only her left hand and forearm were still wrapped. She nursed it, flexed it, turned it around in disbelief then carefully rested it back in her lap. Every time our eyes met, I glimpsed again the terrified creature clinging to the frame of death's icy door, felt again the unbreakable bond that now tied us together. A single word contained everything I needed to say.
'Yes.'
Her warm brown eyes slowly closed. Long lashes brushed her blushed cheeks. As she sank back into the bed, the momentary pain that haunted her elfin face was exorcised by the sweetest smile. Her right hand reached out for mine. I took it, but she playfully cast my hand aside and pressed on, found my knee, my thigh, my crotch, where she deftly palmed my tingling bollocks like tinkling Chinese balls.
'Is there anyone else here?'
For some reason, I glanced around the tiny room then listened intently for signs of life beyond the slightly open door.
'No.'
A hoarse whisper trampled her usually sing-song voice.
'Then take him out for me. Let me feel what my tight pussy will soon be forced to accommodate.'
Again I glanced around. Again I strained my ears. Nothing. Nothing but my pounding blood.
My zip undid the silence. Nimble fingers undid the rest, skilfully unlocking my boxer's keyhole flies and wrapping around my hardening shaft. The smile splitting her serene features grew even wider as my throbbing cock expanded. Short jabbing thrusts soon had me fully erect. I sniffed apologetically.
'It's a been a while, Mia. I'm afraid I won't last...'
She carried on, regardless.
'Christ, Jim. This fucker's gonna hurt me.'
Read the conclusion of this torrid tale plus - extremely generously, I feel - nine further stories in 'Measuring up', my latest collection of concise erotica, available now exclusively on Amazon.
