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Katrina had never, not once, frowned. Katrina did not know how to frown.
"You treat me like crap," she said.
"I what?"
"You treat me like crap."
I sat up carefully. "What are you talking about?"
"'Flip over.' 'Make dinner.' 'Move it.' You treat me like a . . . like a machine."
"You are a fucking machine!"
Katrina yanked on her g-string and struggled into her uni, jerked the zipper up to her cleavage. "You don't listen to me, you don't talk to me — you just fuck me. If that's all you wanted, you should have bought a Vaginator 3000."
"The Vaginator 3000 causes penile lesions."
"You've never told me you loved me. Not once, Willie."
I should have shut her down. I should have shut her down and dragged her back to Mohawk and Nostrils, forced them to roll back the upgrade, smacked their idiot genius faces. I could have told her about it afterward, how she'd started acting sketchy and paranoid, how I'd saved her at the last moment. Katrina would have gazed at me, entranced by the story's drama. To her, it would have seemed like an act of love.
Instead I said, "Come on, Katrina. Of course I love you. Come on, sit down. For Christ's sake, we're missing Shame!"
"I don't care about Shame! I care about how you feel, vis-à-vis our relationship!"
I couldn't stop myself. "Vis-à-vis. Nice. Did you download a free language upgrade?"
"You're making fun of me."
Katrina's voice held a soft, sad note — even though she did not know how to be sad.
She stood near the inductive charger, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "Stop talking, Katrina. Okay? Stop talking or I'm going to shut you off. Sleep mode, now."
"I don't want to stop talking," she said.
Everything is newer, brighter, faster, smaller — but they never mention that in the end it's still up to you, you, you.
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She walked slowly away. I heard her rummaging in the bedroom — for what? I wondered, until I remembered the portable charger stowed beneath the bed. I stood up. The front door slammed. I peeled open another Stim. The Shame! laugh track filled the apartment.
I gave her an hour, then a day, then a week. A $98,000 bot doesn't just stroll away, does it? I called General Robotics that next Tuesday. Yes, she'd run away. No, I hadn't commanded her to leave. Yes, I had her ID frequency. No, she'd never done this before.
Had I upgraded her mesh with non-certified code?
I hung up the phone. As I did, the truth struck me: I'd been ditched by a robot. I peeled a Stim and cranked the holo's volume, and when Grace tapped on the door I shouted at her to mind her own business. I got baked that night, alone. I woke the next morning, alone, showered and ate breakfast, alone. I was late for my shift at RoboMaxx and got written up, and when the manager heard me whisper "dickwad" I got written up a second time.
Fucking technology. Everything is newer, brighter, faster, smaller — but they never mention that in the end it's still up to you, you, you. It's been five months and still I can't decide what to do. Do I buy a new Katrina — I can lease a GenRob SL3500 for $1,750 a month — or do I get a haircut and some decent jeans, head to the bars at the secure end of Colorado? Lately I've been feeling curious about women — about humans. What do they expect from me, from themselves, from each other, from the world? It's been so long since I've been with a woman that I barely remember the words. Please. Allow me. I am sorry. I would be delighted.
It's Sunday. The door to Grace's apartment is open. I hear her footsteps, her radio, her quiet singing. I smell her muffins rising.
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| ABOUT
THE AUTHOR: |
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Karl
Iagnemma's writing has appeared in Playboy, The Best American Short Stories, and The Journal of Autonomous Robots. His first book of short stories, On the Nature of Human Romantic Interaction, was recently published by the Dial Press. Visit www.karliagnemma.com for more information. |
©2006 Karl Iagnemma and Nerve.com |
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