A Metal-Detection Objection at the Reception

A family member objects to a marriage on moral grounds.

Photo by Jordan Arnold on Unsplash

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The salmon dinner was served—and I was on my third Manhattan, trying to suppress a new fit of tears—when Aunt Grace stood.

Red and huffing, she faced the DJ and made a cut-throat gesture with one red-nailed finger. A romantic piano cover of “Beauty and a Beat” scratched to a halt.

Aunt Grace took a deep breath, and then screeched:

“I object!”

Sixty guests turned to gape at her. My sister’s mouth hung open above her white gown, as did those of the three bridesmaids seated at the table of honor.

I blinked up at Aunt Grace’s massive figure, which suddenly cut a heroic silhouette.

My God! I thought. I didn’t think anyone had the guts!

“Aunt Grace!” My sister squealed. “What…what do you mean?”

My quivering fist clenched the glass stem. Go on! Tell them all what a piece of shit he is!

Aunt Grace cried out: “This unnatural pairing goes against God!”

The entire room gasped. I downed the rest of my Manhattan in a single gulp. Shame erupted, I was sure, in dark color on my face.

“That’s terrible!” the first bridesmaid admonished.

“That such bigotry exists in this current day!” said the second, shaking her head.

“Y-yeah!” said the third.

My sister’s new husband Phil sat unmoving, staring blankly off into the distance. His sensual eyes—well suited to a lifetime of Epicurean pleasure-seeking—showcased no regret; no indication even that he was following the proceedings.

How dare he act so blasé! I seethed and tried to take a sip—but my glass contained but a droplet and air.

Aunt Grace turned to address the entire reception hall.

“Don’t you all know?” she cried. “Her… husband—” she emphasized each word, “—is a robot!”

The word landed like a missile in the reception hall. I shielded my face from the blowback.

“That’s hateful!” yelled the first bridesmaid.

“You know, it’s extremely offensive to point out a thing like that!” yelled the second.

“Y-yeah!” yelped the third.

My sister stood. She took Phil’s hand, fitting well-fleshed fingers through his mechanical digits.

“He is a man like any other!” she shouted.

Well, his veins were wires, his “skin” a military-aircraft quality titanium alloy casing, and his brain a super­computer manufactured in Sweden.

But my sister was right.

Phil was a man like any other.

Certainly his feet were just as cold. Just this morning, my father caught him halfway out the hotel with a flight booked to Ibiza—$40,000 sorted that out.

And then, right before the ceremony, I caught his ‘hard-drive’ plugged into bridesmaid number 3, ripping new holes in my heart that had only just begun to heal from the night before—when Phil taught me a new kind of love that no flesh or blood could ever replicate.

He told me I’d “altered his programming.” It was all such bullshit!

Aunt Grace was not dissuaded by the room’s disapproval, which had coalesced into a murder of boos. “But he has no heart!” she yelled.

I raised my empty glass. I stared straight at Phil, who avoided my gaze.

“Hear, hear!” I cried, through a swelling throat and welling eyes.

Aunt Grace was a bigot—there was no doubt about that—but even a broken clock was right twice a day.

“He has no heart! Men are scum!”

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