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.