CRISPR-Cas9 by Shelley Linso

CRISPR-Cas9

“We’re such a primitive species, really.  Aren’t we?” he said, licking his underarm hair.  It was long and silky and red.  

“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied, distracted.  She was depressing each spot on the baby with her thumb.  Last month, the recommended pattern had been different, more like a star and less like a rainbow, and the pressure and rhythm had been different too, a light tap-tap-tap vs this month’s long-press, short-tap-tap.   It seemed like morse code somehow, this tapping.  It made no sense to her, but it was recommended by the ACuLADD for this version of off-spring, so she tapped. 

“We can splice DNA,” she continued.  “That’s advanced.  Isn’t it?  Not primitive.”  

“I suppose,” he said. “Relatively.” 

“Relative to what?” she asked, and he shrugged. “And couldn’t we make, like, a lagomorpha anura or an avian elasmobranchii?  Or, or,” she said, really getting into it now, “what about an NBA all-star?  Or the NFL? MLB? NWSL? What about QTX?  LYII? Or VVXI? What about Wimbledon? We could do that, right?” 

He paused in his armpit-licking to pull a hair from between his teeth, and he watched her press the baby. It was covered in a dense cyan fuzz.  

“Press harder,” he said.  She did and the baby farted.  It kneaded her arm with its prehensile feet.  He watched the baby and then reached one hand over his head to scratch his other ear.  

“We could, I guess,” he said. “But why?”