There was a robot arm above her bed.  I couldn't have been the first to comment, but she blushed like she had been discovered somewhere, naked and out of place.

"It does things for me," she said.  "It makes coffee and finds the remote."

"Can't you just shout at your children?"

"Oh, I would never do that.

We played backgammon; the arm flexed back and forth.  Was it jealous? We drank wine.  Its fingers twitched as she swallowed each glass.

We made love but I did not stay the night.  As I closed the door, I watched the arm gently tucking the duvet around her neck.

I walked home.  A cold wind was coming off Lake Michigan.  Cranes loomed above, running lights winking.

Ever since that night, I've never been able to look at mechanicals without wondering what, exactly, they yearn to protect, and how they are trying to love.