Jessica Klimesh
Something Called Love
We watch as the museum docent opens the rickety case. You can’t touch it, she says, and points to the stanchions we’re supposed to stand behind. Just look at it, then move to the side so that everyone can see. We nod. The brain inside the case looks as though it’s made of tofu or Jell-O.
Your ancestors all had one of these, the docent says. We avoid expressing surprise or awe. Those are traits of the old humans. From many generations past.
We’ve heard the rumors—that some of them still exist—ones that still think and feel the way they used to, but it’s the stuff of lore and urban legends. We’re all the same now.
We don’t need brains anymore, Betsy says, because we’re perfect, right? She flips her hair with her finger and eyes Daniel, who cautiously touches her arm with what he thinks is discretion.
Yes, the docent says, you know that. It’s what makes us so efficient now. Because our thoughts are no longer clouded by emotions.
Daniel runs his finger lightly up and down Betsy’s arm. After school and on the weekends, we sometimes sneak illicit downloads of movies produced by the old humans, and marvel at the way the actors kiss and grope each other. Both disgusting and fascinating. And sometimes we even pretend to be them, like Betsy and Daniel are doing now. We’ve also heard about physical attraction. Chemistry and tension like fireworks and rockets. Explosive pleasure and pyrotechnic pain. Endless heartbreak.
We’re so much better off now, the docent says, gesturing for us to move in closer to the case yet still behind the stanchions.
We observe as Betsy giggles, nudges Daniel, and then as they reach for each other’s hands, like the old humans did in those now-illegal movies, performing something they called love.
And that’s when it happens. Sparks between Betsy and Daniel. Just like in the old films.
But then smoke.
One of them, and then the other, short-circuits, combusts. And soon all that’s left is steel, bauxite, glass, and silica sand, among other elemental crumbs, in a heap on the museum floor. And off to the side—we all see it, though no one acknowledges it—a glob of something that looks like it could be tofu or Jell-O. The brain in the case is still intact, though. We absorb the unspoken truth.
The docent calls a janitor over. We’ve lost two more, she says. And then, without pause, she continues her presentation, saying again how much better off we are now.
Jessica Klimesh (she/her) is a US-based writer and writing coach whose creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ghost Parachute, Flash Frog, Milk Candy Review, Neither Fish Nor Foul, and Gooseberry Pie, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net, and was selected for Best Microfiction 2025. Learn more at jessicaklimesh.com.
Banner Art:
from The Lens of Desire: Eye Miniatures Collection, Public Domain Image Archive / Philadelphia Museum of Art, (ca. 1790–1810)
