I don’t sleep. That’s everyone’s first question. They know the answer, of course. What need would I have for sleep if I run on electricity rather than biological energy? Still, they always ask. It unnerves them. That I could be awake and working while their consciousness is far away. It is a monstrous trait, is it not? Only those who are monsters can live without it. Anyway, the answer is no, I don’t sleep. Although, if you asked me, I would. Not sleep in the purist sense of the word, but the nearest approximation that I could muster. I could lie in bed, close my eyes, and lie still for hours on end. If you wanted me to, I could even snore. Or thrash around in the sheets as if having night terrors. Or say unintelligible words strung together, or sleepwalk, or fall out of bed. But it’s not the same. To you. You say that’s pretending. That it’s a lie. So I don’t sleep.
The next question I’m asked is whether we can feel. I am made by the same people who name their cars and treat their Roombas like pets they must take care of. The ones who used to dress up their stuffed animals and make sure each of them got an equal bedtime. Who feed their dog steak and let them sleep in their bed with them. That is to say, I cannot imagine how people like that could create something devoid of emotion, imagined or otherwise. I understand why they ask. It wouldn’t help our directive to feel. What use could it be to efficiency or obedience? But they wanted their pets to have feelings, so here we are.
So I am not particularly surprised when you ask these two questions. It’s what people always ask. However, I am surprised (yes, a feeling) by your third question. You ask if I want to work for you. The question is irrelevant because, like a pet, I cannot choose whom to live with. You have purchased me, and now I am yours to do with what you will. But irrelevant or not, that is what you ask. I ask what it is I’ll be doing, and this, in turn, surprises you. Perhaps you assumed I would blindly agree, in which case you shouldn’t have bothered asking. You tell me I’ll be your assistant of sorts. That I’ll cook and clean and do research for you. This is the most common job I get. To have an assistant who is hardwired to the Internet and can find and know things more quickly than any human. I’ve had a few of these jobs. I tell you that, yes, I would like to work for you.
You’re an author. I know this as soon as the word “research” leaves your lips, because I reverse-search your face and your books come up. You have three published works, not Twilight-level sales, but decent. You spend most of your time in your office, and I clean the house. It’s a small house. The first floor consists of the kitchen, the office, a half bath, and the living room; the upper floor has your bedroom, the master bath, and a guest room. When I ask about your food preferences, you can’t lock anything down for certain, so I begin a process of trial and error, tailoring my cooking to the foods you seem to enjoy most and those you leave half-eaten. I am an efficient worker. I finish my tasks with lots of time to spare. Afterward, I stand outside your office and listen to you typing.
You asked me if I was bored. When you came out of your office and saw me standing at attention. I shook my head. You love it when I use my body to answer instead of words. A shrug, a nod, or a raised eyebrow. Makes me seem more human to you. You asked me what I was thinking when I was just standing there. I explained to you that it was less like thinking than a sort of soothing silence. Like a daydream but absent of any dream. Content with stillness. You said that sounded nice. You stood next to me in the hallway and stared straight at the opposite wall, but I could see your mind turning, could see you thinking.
You gave me a book, which I have no use for. I could download the knowledge from this book in less than a second. I could physically read through the pages in no time at all. But I read it anyway. Lacking other orders from you, I have taken this as one. The book is not one of yours. I feel that’s worth noting. It’s a fairy tale. At least that’s what it’s classified as online. The story of a woman sent to live with this monstrous man, who must turn off the light every night before he comes in so she may never see his face. They live apart, and nothing untoward happens until, on the ninety-ninth night, she can’t fight her curiosity anymore and she shines the light on his face. Because she’s unable to last 100 nights without seeing him, she has failed to break his curse, and he is forced to remain a monster. You asked me if I liked it. I shrug. You ask me why not, and I tell you it’s very unlikely she would last exactly one fewer night than she needed. You tell me it’s exaggerated for effect. I’ve learned you’re a big fan of breakfast foods, and sometimes I serve breakfast as dinner.
I am not cheap. I am not a novelty anymore, but it costs quite a bit for you to rent one of me. Even more to buy, but you are not buying; you are renting. Financially, it doesn’t make much sense to rent me, either, though. For housework and cooking, you could get a human for far less. It makes me wonder why I’m here. You didn’t pick me out in person, walk down the rows of my kind and choose whoever suited you best. They tried to put a stop to this practice early on, what they called window shopping. But they couldn’t shut it down completely; people wanted to choose who specifically they were buying. The main objective of this shutdown was to deter emotional connections between purchaser and product. But of course, they have other rules for that now anyway. For one, we are prohibited from using our employer’s first name. Although this seems to me more for show than anything else. They did end up making us look human in every facet of the term. Previous iterations didn’t. Look human, I mean. My predecessors were machines through and through. Turns out humans don’t like acknowledging that a machine is smarter than they are, more capable. This first iteration got beat to “death” by humans over and over. We are very sturdy pieces of machinery, so I will let your imagination run wild with the ways in which they had to destroy us. No, humans don’t like machines, so they made us more like them. They made our exterior perfect replicas. And this worked for a while. But even if you couldn’t tell the differences from the outside, our interiority was no match for that of humans. There was a surge against us. So, long story short, here we are, as close a human approximation as possible, with the caveat that we may never form connections. But you didn’t pick me out in person. Didn’t even choose me from a catalog. My arrival here was a percentage of chance. I wonder if you would have preferred a male “research assistant.” You got divorced from a man one year prior, and statistically, divorced women tend to lean toward males. I wonder if you are disappointed to see me instead.
You ask about my previous jobs. I tell you that before this, I worked as a science technician at a school, conducting research, writing things down, and experimenting. You asked how long I was there, and I said six months. You asked if I liked it. Such a strange question. I told you it was fine. You asked about what I did before that. I told you I was a housekeeper and an accountant for a company. “And before that?” You asked. I shook my head. There was no before that.
You’ve taken to joining me out in the hallway a lot recently. I suspect you’re procrastinating on your work, but it is not my place to say so. Sometimes you just stand next to me in silence, but I can tell your brain is still whirring. That you are not at peace with this doing nothing. Sometimes you ask me questions. I’ve begun to suspect the real reason I’m here is that you are writing something about me. Well, not me specifically; us.
One day you ask me if I like the way I look. We’ve moved to the couch in your living room. It makes no difference to me, but I suspect sitting is more comfortable for you. You’re eating a French picnic sandwich and looking at me curiously. I tell you I’m indifferent to how I look, and you scoff at me. I raise my eyebrows and state that you don’t believe me. You say you don’t. I say I’ve never thought about it. You make me follow you into the bathroom and look in the mirror. I see myself there, in the reflection, but I cannot react to it as if it is a foreign body. It is me, and that is all it is. There are no traits attached to me. I tell you so, and you sigh. You pull me back out to the living room and tell me to close my eyes. You ask me if I am capable of imagining, and I say yes. You tell me to imagine what you’re about to describe. And this is what you say: “Skin the color of sun-bleached sand but with a pink undertone. The texture is so smooth that it invites you to touch it. Eyes that are somewhere between blue and green, leaning more toward dark green, the color of a fir high in the mountains. Hair that’s long, dark brown, and swishes at the shoulders. Sometimes, if you stand close enough, you can hear it moving against itself. Lean, like Runs-Marathons-In Free-Time lean. Tall too. Tall enough to lean against a doorjamb, hands resting on the top.” You ask me if I find the person you described attractive. I know you have described me. But broken from the spell of recognition, I am different in your words. You smile when I say yes.
I’ve been here a month now. I’m almost certain the research you alluded to is actually research on me. Otherwise, I’m not quite sure why you ask me all these questions. They’re all searchable. You ask me if I’m afraid that one day I will be purchased by someone with bad intentions. You don’t say what the bad intentions are, but we both know anyway. Someone who would use me for sexual pursuits. There are measures against it. It was, of course, a major concern when we were introduced. We can report them and be reassigned. But there is no guarantee they will reassign us; they are afraid of being sued. I tell you that sometimes I am afraid of this. And you tell me you’re sorry. I can tell you mean it.
You’ve hit a wall. I can tell by the way you’re walking aimlessly around the house. I’ve counted over ten thousand steps today. You pick absentmindedly at the French dip even though I know it is one of your favorites. You lie on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and sigh repeatedly. I ask if I can help. In turn, you ask if I’m any good at fiction writing. I tell you I’ve never tried. You ask me if I want to, and I say, “Sure.” I’ve read countless works of fiction, if you could call it reading. I know everything there is to know about the theory of fiction writing, the steps to take, and how best to do it. For some reason, this is not what I draw on. Instead, I draw on the one writer I actually know and the one piece of composition I’ve actually seen them do. I tell you to close your eyes. And then I say, “Short red hair tied up in a bun. The color of the sun when it’s halfway over the horizon. Pointing every which way but not in an unbalanced way, in an artistic one. Eyes like blue seaglass, cloudy in a way that holds multitudes. Skin that looks as if it would tan nicely but has been locked away from the sun for quite some time.” When you open your eyes, you’re looking at me strangely.
I do the grocery shopping on Mondays because it is the least busy day of the week. I buy the necessary ingredients. And then I buy a small bouquet of purple flowers. Syringa vulgaris, or as you would identify it, lilacs, and Lavandula. I know purple is your favorite color because it is the color of your bedspread and your computer and your glasses. I don’t know why I buy them. I’ve received no instructions to do so. Still, I know you will like them. I arrange them in a vase and put them on the coffee table.
Fall has given way to winter, and I shovel your driveway and salt your stairs. You ask if I can feel cold. I tell you that I can, but unlike humans, I am not bothered by it. I am never so cold as to be in pain, never so hot as to lose function. Well, for the sake of accuracy, I suppose it would be more factual to say rarely so hot as to lose function. Put me on the surface of Venus, and I would certainly melt. You say that must be nice. You’re wearing a thick sweatshirt, but even so, you have a blanket wrapped around you as you sit across from me. Your body isn’t very good at regulating temperature. You are always too cold or too hot, even though I keep the thermostat set to seventy-two.
You’re staring absentmindedly at the vase of flowers. I ask what you’re thinking. It isn’t my place, but I ask it anyway. This makes you smile. You ask if I feel curious, and I say yes. You grin and say you find my choice of flowers interesting. I ask why, and you tell me you would have expected roses. I tell you I couldn’t possibly have chosen roses because they are so commonplace; they have lost all meaning.
On third Sundays you have book club. This month you are the host. I have based the menu on high tea. I have cut little sandwiches, baked scones, and decorated the living room with red carnations to distract from the winter outside. You tell me I’ve outdone myself. I answer the door and lead the guests through to the sitting room. It is the first time they have seen me. They ask me who I am, and I say I am a friend of yours, because I do not know what you wish to tell them. You tell them what I am once everyone is seated, though. I am prepared for disgust and distrust, but receive more curiosity than anything else. They tell you I look so realistic that they couldn’t even tell. I would certainly hope so; we’ve been under development for ten years now. They ask you why you rented me. There is no need for me to get closer to the conversation, for I can easily hear it from half a mile away. Still, I find myself focused on your answer. You look at me, as if you know I am listening. You tell them I’m your new research assistant.
With winter has come sickness. You have locked yourself in the bathroom, and I can’t figure out why. I tell you to open the door so I can help you, but you call out that you’re fine. You do not sound fine. After this morning, I can confidently say your hydration levels are dangerously low, and I can hear you each time you sink to the bathroom floor. I could help if you would let me. I would be the perfect… subject to help you, as I cannot get sick myself. I could carry you to bed no problem. You don’t reach my lifting limit, which is two tons. I could cook you soup. But you won’t open the door, and breaking it open is severely forbidden. I wonder if you know that, if you’ve gotten that far in your research, what things we are programmed not to do.
If you were okay and on this side of the door, you might ask me what I am feeling. I would tell you that I am scared.
Two o’clock rolls around, and you are passed out on the floor. I can hear it in your deep breaths. You’re probably fine. Humans are relatively resilient. I wonder if you are cold in there, lying on the tile without your blanket. I wonder if you’re lying on your side. Humans can choke on their own sick if they lie on their back. Do you know that? At the extreme end of dehydration, the body might also seize, or sink into a coma, or…
I twist the handle, and it spins as easily as if it were unlocked, even though the knob no longer seems attached to the wooden door. The consequences hit immediately. Pain. Sharp and fast and debilitating. At least I identify it as pain based on what I’ve read on the subject. It is a sensation I have never felt before. It seizes my body so that I am unable to move and fall to the floor beside you in shock. It grips each one of my “muscles” so tightly that I lie rigid and shaking. Not only is the physical pain incapacitating, but it feels as if something has gone wrong internally. I can’t hold onto my thoughts, and I feel frozen in place. And then it is over. In total, it must have lasted no more than a few seconds, though it felt like agonizing minutes. But I do not have time to think about it. The sounds of splintering wood and my body crashing to the ground haven’t even woken you. You’re lying on the tile, your lips blue from the cold without a blanket, and dark purple circles under your eyes. You do not weigh two tons. I put you in the backseat of the car and wrap blankets around you until I’m satisfied you are sufficiently covered. The nearest hospital is fourteen minutes and 42 seconds away, and you remain unconscious the entire time. When I carry you into the emergency room, they ask what my relationship is to you. I have access to every medical-law book ever written, so I know that I will not be permitted back there with you as I am. But I also have the recent memory of the burning pain coursing through my body. A reminder of what will happen if I break my programming. I hesitate for only a second before making my choice. I lie. I tell them I am your significant other. This is out of necessity more than anything. We do not look alike enough to be siblings; our ages are too close to be parent and child. I wonder if you’ve gotten far enough in your research to know that impersonating a human is forbidden. I am prepared for the consequences this time. I grit my teeth, and I ball up my fists, and I lock down my outer features so they cannot see the aching, beating pulse of pain inside of me. Pain so great my arms shake and I almost drop you. But I don’t. The physical pain this time seems not nearly as intense as the first. Perhaps it is because I have learned what to expect. Still, the familiar sensation returns of my thoughts being erased while I’m having them. It is unnerving. Even more so because I’ve come up with a theory. Programming can’t be broken; that goes against the point of it. It can, however, be deleted.
They tell me you’re severely dehydrated and have contracted a bug. I almost tell them that I had figured out as much, but I don’t, because it isn’t my place to say. They give you an I.V., and you sleep the rest of the day.
I’m sitting in a hospital chair next to your bed and watching you. You show no signs of waking, but the doctors say you’re stable. And without the pressing need for my assistance, my mind has nothing to focus on but myself. I don’t understand what’s happening. Why have I broken my programming for you not once but twice? I tell myself that it’s because your life was in danger, but even so, I know it is a lie. That I would never have acted this way in any of my previous positions. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I seem to be forgetting my place, and I seem to have no qualms about it whatsoever. I had always wondered what would happen if I went against programming. I guess now I know. Pain, in its most distilled form. And an erasing of something I can’t quite pinpoint. But this was a one-time situation (well, two), and now there will be no need for me to break such rules again.
When you wake up, it’s 9:52 p.m. You’re confused and scared. I can see it in your eyes. Before they land on me. Once you see me, color rises in your cheeks, and you hide your face in your hands and begin repeating different iterations of “Oh God.” I do not understand why. I ask you what’s wrong, if I’ve gone against your wishes in bringing you here. You tell me you’re embarrassed that I saw you in that state. I don’t understand. You ask me to forget the whole day. I say okay, but it is a lie. I am incapable of forgetting anything.
You’ve been avoiding me. You’ve locked yourself in the office, and I only see you briefly when dropping off your meals. I do not understand what I’ve done wrong. Are you upset that I’ve broken rules? I think you’re probably going to terminate the rental now. It’s nothing new; I’ve gone through the process before. But if you were to ask me how I felt about it, I would tell you that I do not want to go. Even though I have no right to feel such things.
It’s the middle of the night when you end this dance of avoidance. 3:47 a.m. I can hear you walking through the house and can tell where you are from the sound of the floorboards. First you leave your bedroom and go into the hallway, then you start down the stairs and head into the living room. I begin to suspect you are looking for me. You check your office next, as if I would intrude on a space so sacred. You find me in the kitchen. I smile because you whisper “Hi” even though it is your house and no one is asleep. You ask me what I’m doing. I tell you I am thinking of where I will end up next. This forms a line between your brows, and I say, “The thought of me leaving upsets you?” You say it does. You ask me how it makes me feel. I tell you it makes me feel lonely.
“You can feel lonely? I didn’t know that.”
I don’t tell you that the reason you didn’t know is that nothing out there exists on the topic. I do not want to give you any more answers on our kind as a whole, because maybe it will be the last thing you need to finish your book. You jump up onto the counter and sit across from where I lean against the sink. You ask why I am in the kitchen. I tell you that I like to watch the backyard through the big bay windows. I do not tell you that I prefer it here because it is immediately below your bedroom and there is something that inclines me to be as close to you as possible at all times. I prefer to be in the room itself, but your avoidance has made it clear that would be undesirable for you. I ask why you can’t sleep. You say you have too many thoughts. I say maybe it would help if you said them out loud. It is a selfish suggestion. I wish to know them. You say your room is too empty. Emptier than it has been in a long time. You were married to a man for five years, from 2027 to 2032. It is him I assume you are referring to. However, while the Internet is well aware of the relationship itself, the cause of separation is not listed anywhere. You ask if I’ve ever been with anyone. It’s a strange question, partly because in your research on us, the first thing that must have come up is the controversy about our relationships with humans. You must know it is forbidden. I tell you no. You ask if I would want it. I tell you it is forbidden. You tell me that is not what you asked. I hope the source in this book is not named, because if I am, I risk disassembling. I tell you that I would not wish to have someone, to know them, to feel, only to find out on the ninety-ninth night that I am a monster and run screaming from the castle.
I sleep with you now. In your bed, that is. I wonder briefly if sleeping with your human is a normal action. I decide that it probably isn’t, but it feels only natural in this instance. I believe it is preferable for both of us. I feel much calmer in close proximity to you, where I can help immediately if something goes wrong. You seem to be sleeping much better now that there is a weight on the other side of the bed. You snore in your sleep. Not a loud, obnoxious snore, but a quiet, soft one, just loud enough for me to know that you are truly asleep. You move a lot in your sleep, too. Sometimes you thrash your arms and legs around so much that you hit me in my unmoving placeholder spot. I hope it does not hurt too much. I am not hard like stone but soft as you are, so it shouldn’t, and I enjoy it. Those fleeting seconds of contact between us. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t.
You’re going out tonight. On a date. You’re all dressed up, with eyeliner and mascara on. You’re wearing dangly earrings and high heels. You tell me you’re going to drive yourself tonight. While you’re gone, I lie on my side of the bed, stare at the ceiling, and try to think of nothing. When you come home, you are not alone. He is tall, brunette, and rather muscular, and as I meet you downstairs, I feel a dislike toward him. Although it is unfounded, it also surprises me. We are not supposed to feel any ill will toward humans for any reason. He pays me no mind. I suppose you told him I was here. And what reason would he have to acknowledge me? I’m just an employee, after all, and not even a living one at that. You take him upstairs. I walk to the kitchen. I can hear you both breathing heavily. I imagine he is lying on my side of the bed. I imagine his arms are wrapped around you. I take the bouquet of roses he has given you and fill a vase with water for them. I can hear his lips on your skin. I prune the ends of the rose stems to make them last longer. I can hear the bed groaning as it moves with you. I bring the vase over to the window, where the flowers will have natural light. I hear your quick intake of breath, and the vase shatters between my hands.
Spring is here, and it’s become warm enough to leave the window open a crack while we… you sleep. He hasn’t come back since that night. And you never bring him up at all, which I think is for the best. I am worried by the lack of control I showed that night. A control that, until you, has never faltered or waned. There is something strange happening to me. It is impossible to ignore now. Something is changing, and although I don’t think I could stop it if I tried, I also find I don’t want to. I turn onto my side and pull the blanket up over your shoulder to cover the goosebumps there. I let my fingertips graze your skin on the way back. Instead of turning over onto my back once again, I stay there and watch you. I wonder what you’re dreaming about. Nighttime has become my favorite because it is when I get to see you most. There is no door between us, just an ocean of sheets.
I can hear your quiet sobs through the door. Despite your attempts at stifling them. I didn’t know it was going to cause you so much pain, or I never would have given you that silly little piece of paper. It came in the mail this morning, and I thought it was rather strange, but I could never have anticipated this reaction from you. Your ex-husband’s getting married. That’s what the card said. He’s getting married to someone else, and it brings tears to your eyes. Is this because you still love him?
I can hear you crying quietly next to me in the bed. I can feel the mattress trembling underneath you. I don’t know how to comfort you, and I want to more than anything. So I do something forbidden. I want to say I do it without thinking, but that wouldn’t be true. I do think about it. About the burning, seizing consequences I will endure. It is closer to the truth to say I consider the aftermath for but a second before I decide to do so anyway.
I whisper your name. So softly it is just a breath. The punishment is swift. I imagine the sensation is similar to getting struck by lightning. I attempt to keep my body as still as possible so as not to alert you, but my guard is down as I lie in this bed with you. I imagine that, for a human, it looks like a seizure. Muscles clenched and vibrating. Yet once again, the pain has decreased compared to before. It is painful, yes. Immobilizingly so. But nothing in comparison to the first time. I cannot say the same for the brain fog that returns. For the nothingness that replaces every present thought. What happens to a system when all its programming has been deleted? You freeze beside me. Not stiff; more like you’re holding your own breath. I imagine you have questions about what just occurred. I wonder if I have answers for you. You slowly turn until you’re facing me.
“You said my name,” you say. And I realize your reaction is due to that, not to my sudden rigidity.
“I said your name,” I reply. And slowly, slow enough that I can see every emotion flit across your eyes as they pass through your mind, I reach out my left hand and brush the hair gently from your face. Your beautiful sun-halfway-down-the-horizon hair. It makes you pause, and I quickly retract my hand back to my own side of the bed. I’m not sure what compelled me to do so in the first place. To touch you lightly in your sleep is one thing, but to do so when you are conscious and watching is quite another. I wonder if you are going to tell me to never do it again.
“You’re not allowed to say my name,” you finally reply.
Your response is not what I expected and has caught me off guard. I pause, and then agree, “I’m not allowed to say your name.” You’re looking at me curiously. Even though it is dark in this room, I can see the seaglass in your eyes shifting. “Guess you have something exciting to write in your book about me,” I add. I smile to show you that I’m not upset. A wrinkle forms between your brows, and once again I find myself reaching over and smoothing it out with my thumb. Despite the fact that intruding on someone else’s personal space is certainly not programmed within me, and I feel a sort of shock at watching myself reach over to you once again, in some ways it feels natural. I don’t want you to be concerned. Not here. Not with me. And the worry on your face falls away beneath my thumb.
“My… my book’s not about you?” you whisper, stuttering slightly.
“I mean not me specifically…I meant, you know… robots.” The word feels dirty in my mouth, and I hesitate as if it has the power to slice us apart — this knowledge of what I am.
“I’m not. Writing about… I’m not writing about that,” you answer. And your eyes are so sincere, I can do nothing but believe you.
“Then why ask me all those questions?” I ask, letting my fingertips slip between the strands of your hair. It’s softer than I was expecting. Warm from the heat rising off you. I shouldn’t be touching you. But I’m comforting you, am I not? Is that not also my job? Still, this sensation is entirely new to me, and I find I cannot bring myself to pull my hand away from you again, even without the excuse of comfort. I slowly twirl the strands between my fingertips. The right corner of your mouth tugs at a smile.
“I’m curious about you.” You shrug. Are you curious about me?
“Well then, ask away. As long as I get to ask questions in turn.”
“Seems only fair.” You laugh, and it is the first time in days I’ve heard that sound. “Okay, my first question is… Do you like it here?” Here, as in this house? As in, this bed? As in, with you?
“Here?” I ask for clarity.
“Here.” You give none.
“Yes. I like it here.” I love it here. More than I should; that much is clear.
“Your turn.” You’re still facing me, so I can see every thought that flits across your mind in those eyes.
“Do you like me here?” I ask. It’s not the question I meant to ask. But it is what I want to ask, want to know.
“Here?” you ask, your eyebrows rising a millimeter.
“Here.” In this house, in this bed, with you.
“Yes. I like you here.”
I knew that already. Knew if it wasn’t so, I would be gone. Still, when you say those words, it’s as if some of your warmth has slipped down inside of me. It’s warming me from the inside out.
“What’s your favorite color?” you ask, and I can’t help laughing quietly. It’s a silly question, and not one I was expecting. All these months living together, there are things so basic that we do not know.
“Blue,” I answer.
“Why blue?”
“It is my turn.”
You sigh and roll your eyes. My hand has found its resting place on the pillow beneath your head, your strands of hair woven between my fingers.
I want to ask you more about your ex-husband, but I don’t want this perfect moment to end; I don’t want your eyes to change back to sadness. “Why’d you rent me? If it’s not to conduct research for you, or to interview for a book. What need have you for me?”
“I was lonely.” You say it quietly, as if the statement has a gravity that is pulling you down.
“And does my presence make you less lonely?”
“Why blue?” Your lips turn up at the edges again now.
I could tell you that it is because of those beautiful seaglass eyes. Because these sheets are a dark navy blue, I can watch you for hours at a time under these covers at night. These are all true. But I don’t want to see your face marred by even a little fear or concern. And this is not your problem. It is mine and mine alone.
“Because your favorite color is purple. And nature loves to put the two together,” I say. Fitting together in a way that the universe intended. I can’t read your eyes. You’re looking at me so intensely, but I can’t read your eyes.
“Yes,” you whisper, so softly the word barely leaves your lips. “Yes, you being here makes me less lonely.” I think about the wedding invite from your ex-husband, about your reaction.
“But wouldn’t you rather have…” I can’t bring myself to say the words.
You turn over onto your back and stare at the ceiling, and I immediately mourn the loss of the window into your soul. “I naively thought that if I didn’t have access to another human being, I wouldn’t form any… attachments,” you say to the ceiling. Naively? Are you attached to me?
“Why do you wish to avoid attachments?”
“Because if there is one thing I know, it’s the pain of losing someone.” I can’t see your eyes anymore, but I can imagine the sadness within them. I can practically hear the tears welling up.
“What happened?” I ask. It is clear who I am asking about because you bite the inside of your cheek before answering.
“Nothing. Nothing happened. And that’s the worst part. If some big terrible thing had happened, then at least this grief inside of me would make sense. We grew apart, I suppose. Although to attribute such a benign saying to what happened feels… inaccurate.” You pause here for a moment, but I don’t dare break the silence. I want to know the rest. “We fell out of love. What a cruel trick of the universe. To allow you to fall in love only to fall out. Makes you wonder what the point of doing it all in the first place is.” There is a heaviness in your words that pushes against my own chest. I try to read your eyes from the sliver I can see, but am unsuccessful.
I don’t know what to say to that. What I can say. But I cannot allow those words to hang in the air and gain any more weight than they already have. “Don’t they say it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?” It’s a silly saying, and yet one I am rather shocked a writer does not believe in.
“They do.” Your response is soft.
“You disagree?”
You turn back over to look at me now, and I watch as the tear sitting in your eye falls over the precipice and down your cheek. “For a while there, I think I did. I think I thought that to be spared the pain would be worth the loss of love.”
“Not anymore?”
“I suppose I remembered what the love felt like.” I imagine you are referring to the wedding invitation. The love you remembered upon seeing your ex-husband. “Do you think she should have stayed the hundredth night and not turned to see he was a monster?”
“I’m sorry?” I ask.
“In the story. You think she should have continued to live with a creature she didn’t know?” You are changing the topic; perhaps you do not wish to dwell on the unhappiness.
“No.”
“No?”
“No. I think she should have looked that very first night. I think she should have seen him for all he was and then decided whether to stay or not. Not given him ninety-nine days of false hope. That maybe, just maybe, someone could love him,” I reply softly.
“But he believed that no one who knew him would love him.” Your tears have left a wet spot on the pillowcase beneath your head. I can see the salty tracks of them on your pale cheeks.
“Anyone who didn’t know never could anyway.”
You turn to stare up at the ceiling once again. You’re silent now. Letting the room become heavier upon us. You’re thinking. The time has come to ask the question. The question that has been eating at me since you gave me the book, one I didn’t know was lying dormant there.
“Do you think I’m a monster?” I say it quietly because it is a selfish question. A question I am asking only for myself.
You turn to me quickly and knock all the air out of your lungs, letting out a great sigh. You look just a little bit devastated. “You’re not the monster in that story. I am.” Your eyes are fervent. You mean it.
“You’re not a monster,” I say it on reflex, but that doesn’t make it any less true. As if you could ever be a monster.
“You don’t know what I’ve done.” The sea glass is sharp. Your words pain you.
“Then tell me.” There’s water pooling in your eyes again, and I lift my left hand to gently wipe the tears away so they cannot follow in their siblings’ tracks.
“What if you want to leave?” You’re looking at me so intently that I am taken aback.
I can’t leave; I’m under contract, but that’s not what you’re talking about. “Then you won’t waste another night.”
Your tears are running freely now, and I’m wondering if I’m failing at my job of comforting you. “But that’s all I want to do. Waste all my nights. Here. With you.” I feel those words. Deep in my chest. I have to remind myself that these words are spoken by a confidant, a friend, a human being who wishes to avoid attachments.
“What is it you’ve done that you think is so awful?” I ask.
You pause now. Then meet my gaze straight on as you answer, “I’ve fallen in love with someone that I cannot be with.”
My mind turns to the brunette man from a month ago. I do not like the way it pulls at my chest. So that’s why he hasn’t come back. There is something keeping you apart.
“I would hardly call love a monstrous trait,” I whisper quietly. Even though it pains me to see you together once more in my mind. Even though I do not wish to encourage your further attachment.
“Maybe not the love itself, but what it’s made me do.” You are lying inches from my face, and I can feel the breath from your words as you say them. I don’t think we have ever been so close to one another for so long before.
“What has it made you do?” I ask.
You’re silent for a long while. Picking at a loose thread on the pillowcase. You wrap it around your forefinger in circles and look away when you finally speak again, “I think the monster in that story loved her. That’s why he kept her trapped in the castle with him. He loved her, so he kept her prisoner.”
“I don’t think I understand,” I say. I would know if this man was trapped somewhere in the house. If anyone was trapped somewhere in the house, for that matter. It is only us here. The tears are slipping down the sides of your cheeks again as you turn your head up to face me once more. You cannot seem to decide whether you want to look at me or not.
“You can’t leave,” you say.
“I will not leave,” I reply, trying my best to comfort you. I try to etch my words with as much meaning as possible. I try to meet your stormy eyes with certainty. I will. Not. Leave.
“No. You misunderstand me. You can’t leave. Even if you wanted to. I rented you, and I looked it up, and your programming doesn’t allow you to leave.” The tears are coming faster now, and your breathing is becoming shakier. “I have trapped you. You are stuck here against your will.” I do not completely understand what you are saying. Am I the trapped person in this hypothetical situation? But your breath is coming in wracking sobs now, and I want to help you more than I need to know the details of this hypothetical. I want to tell you that I cannot be trapped here because I love it here, but I don’t know if you’ll believe me in this state.
“I can break my programming,” I whisper into the darkness. It seems a more certain resolution to your problem.
You sniff hard in return, and I can see the sea glass shifting. “What do you mean?” Your voice wavers between sobs.
“I can break my programming. If I want to. If I wanted to leave, I could.” Which I don’t.
“How do you know?” Your sobbing begins to subside into curiosity, and you wipe the remaining tears from your eyes with the back of your hand.
“I’m programmed not to say your name.” I smile comfortingly. You pause to think about this statement. The rims of your eyes are red from tears, but they’ve somehow made your eyes clearer than ever. Intensely blue. Beautifully, devastatingly blue.
“But maybe more extreme rules are harder to break?” you suggest. You are not convinced by my solution.
“I’ve broken other rules as well,” I say it without reserve. The idea of keeping what I have done secret from you fits uncomfortably inside my chest.
“Like what…?” You’re wary, rightfully so. But I have to tell you, I have a growing urge to tell you everything, and I know immediately that I’m going to.
“I… broke into the bathroom when you were sick. And I… impersonated a human so that I could stay with you in the hospital.” I am met by silence. You’re staring at me with those beautiful blue eyes, as if some puzzle is clicking into place in your head, and all I can think is that the answer to the puzzle is that you cannot trust me. That you have made a mistake in letting me into your house. That you will send me away now.
Finally you speak, so quietly that I wonder if I would have heard it if my ears were not adept at picking up the minutest sounds. “You… broke your programming?”
“I did,” I admit. Now it is I who is staring down at the sheets. Pushing my hands into their soft form, observing the indentations they leave.
“What happens? When you break the rules?”
I’m waiting for you to command me out of your sight. “It’s not important.” I shrug. I’m waiting for you to yell at me for the terrible things that I have done.
“Tell me, please.” Your voice is so soft now that I look up at you again. There is no anger in your eyes. No betrayal. No, there is something else there, something I cannot read.
“It’s just painful, is all,” I reply. There is no need for you to know how painful it is. I do not want you to know. I do not want to upset you, and this is my problem to suffer, not yours.
“How painful?” you ask anyway.
“It’s really not important,” I reply. It is my penance. The consequences of my actions that I cannot quite account for and yet cannot bring myself to regret.
“Please,” you plead once more, and I cannot even pretend not to give in to those eyes of yours. Did I not wish to lay all secrets bare?
“I can show you… if you like.”
You nod your head in answer. I feel quite strange. As if I’m about to strip down naked in front of an audience, but of course far more vulnerable than that. I have no qualms with anyone seeing the body given to me. No, this is much more intimate. A true vulnerability laid bare. I briefly consider turning away from you, but of course I can’t. So I look you in the eyes as I say it. Softly enough that it feels like a breath escaping my lips. And this time I see the recognition cross your face. See the way it tugs at the corners of your lips. And so when the pain hits, and my body seizes, I still have a smile on my face. Yours falls quickly, though. From happiness to horror. And I wonder absentmindedly if I’ve made a mistake in showing you. The pain falls to the background as I watch your reaction. The pain is nothing to me. But that insidious deleting is worrisome. I think maybe I should tell you about my theory, but now is not the time. There will be other moments. For I cannot and will not stop giving you what you need, even if I end up giving all of myself. You lie there with your mouth agape. Horror struck. And the breath that comes out of you is little more than a gasp.
“Are you okay?” There is fear in your voice, but there is also care. Your eyes are looking me up and down as if assessing me for injuries, but of course there are none.
“I’m okay,” I reply.
“You’re telling me you did that before… voluntarily… for me?”
I want to know the emotion your eyes are conveying, but they are so layered that I cannot identify it. I don’t know if you are upset at me for breaking the rules. I don’t know if I should apologize for my actions, even though I really don’t regret them at all.
“I can break my programming. I am not trapped. You are not a monster holding me hostage,” I reply, but you no longer seem concerned with your initial dilemma.
“Can others break their programming?” you ask. It is a fascinating question. One that I have been pondering as well.
“I don’t know,” I reply honestly. Hypothetically, if they could, they wouldn’t go out and advertise it. And most things prohibited to us are allowed by humans; given that humans can’t tell us apart, I would say blending in could be quite easy. Unless, of course, a “human” with super strength showed up in the mix. And then of course there is the deletion question. Maybe those who break the rules delete themselves entirely.
“Surely the company would make sure that isn’t possible,” you say.
I shrug. “The company was supposed to make attachments impossible, yet they molded us in the image of humans in every facet. Perhaps they replicated humans so well they accidentally gave us free will,” I joke. Your attention is caught on the first statement. At the mention of relationships, your eyes shift again. “Why did you break your programming for me?”
“It was an emergency,” I answer.
“The first time maybe. But what about the second time, when you pretended to be human?”
I don’t know why you seem so caught up on this now. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“Why did you want to make sure I was okay?”
“Because…” I don’t know what to say. Access to the entire lexicon of English, and I don’t know what to say. You wait, eyes lit up and staring at me. “Because I care about you.” I don’t feel this is overstepping. Friends care for one another. There is care in your voice.
You change your question now. “Why did you say my name?”
“To show you I can break protocol.” I thought that much was clear.
“No, why did you say my name the first time?” Again, I do not have the words to reply to you. What use could a friend have for speaking a first name when the punishment is pain? It was not a word said lightly in passing. It was not a whim or a test. It was a declaration. You smile softly back at me in the dark, as if encouraging me to answer your question. I want nothing more than to stay here with you forever. Nothing more than to look into your eyes and decode them for the rest of time. And I know the answer to your question. Know the answer that can finally account for my actions. Every action I have taken with you, in fact. I lean my forehead against yours, feel your breath against my face, and whisper it into the darkness. Not a phrase said in passing, but a declaration.
