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Obsidian could not know how attractive he was to her—young, probably younger than she was, clean, asking for what he wanted rather than demanding it. . . .
He pulled her closer to him and for a moment she let herself enjoy the closeness. He smelled good—male and good. She pulled away reluctantly.
He sighed, reached toward the glove compartment. She stiffened, not knowing what to expect, but all he took out was a small box. The writing on it meant nothing to her. She did not understand until he broke the seal, opened the box, and took out a condom. He looked at her, and she first looked away in surprise. Then she giggled. She could not remember when she had last giggled.
Obsidian is one of the story’s two main characters, but he also has a symbolic function best seen in contrast with the descriptions and behaviors of other male characters. These lines, which come after Obsidian and Rye drive away, develop his symbolic function. As with the children who can speak, Obsidian represents hope after despair, renewal after destruction. Rye’s observations of Obsidian and her reactions to his actions reveal this symbolism. He is clean, for example, unlike the threatening neighbor who never washes and urinates wherever he likes. Obsidian asks Rye if she wants to have sex, unlike the passenger who demands through gestures that Rye “accommodate” him and the other men. Obsidian intuits Rye’s reason for hesitating, and when he unwraps the condom, she “giggle[s].” This reaction is key. With Obsidian, Rye experiences kindness, sympathy, even joy, emotions lost to her since the pandemic began. He does not take offense when Rye “stiffen[s],” fearing coercion. Human connection and gentle friendship replace, at least for a while, the fear in which Rye lives. Obsidian’s existence suggests that humanity can heal. His death acknowledges the difficult way ahead, but at least there is a way.
She asked once more if he would come home with her, this time using a different series of gestures. He had seemed hesitant. Perhaps he could be courted.
He got out and into the front seat without responding.
She took her place in front again, watching him. Now he plucked at his uniform and looked at her. She thought she was being asked something but did not know what it was.
He took off his badge, tapped it with one finger, then tapped his chest. Of course.
She took the badge from his hand and pinned her wheat stalk to it. If playing cops and robbers was his only insanity, let him play. She would take him, uniform and all.
These lines occur after Rye and Obsidian have sex. They communicate well, given their impairments, but Rye doesn’t know whether Obsidian was in fact an officer with the Los Angeles Police Department before the pandemic or assigned himself this duty afterward. He is dedicated in any case. He manages to keep a car fueled so that he can do his work. His integrity and seriousness suggest that the illness has not dealt civilization a fatal blow. He is not, as Rye considers other men in the story, an “animal.” At first, when Rye asks him to come home with her, she assumes that he hesitates because he is already “raising corn, rabbits, and children” with a woman. In fact, Obsidian hesitates because his work in the city means so much to him. His duty takes priority over his personal desires. Though Rye considers his devotion a pointless “insanity” in the wreck of Los Angeles, she soon learns that Obsidian is willing to risk everything to help a fleeing woman. Serving the ruined city is not “play” to him but a calling.
