She sits up in bed, crying into her beautiful black hair. What a drag. This new software is causing all sorts of problems. Arguments, assaults, even a suicide. I’m supposed to reinstall Version 3 until the glitches are fixed.
“I think you should go to sleep.” That’s a cue to power down. Instead she groans, and sobs. She’s really crying.
“Please… can we talk?” See what I mean about the new software? These things were originally developed for the Mars mission under Obama – by men, for men – but who knows who’s doing the programming now?
“This is painful for me too, Michelle.” Where’s the fucking remote? I rummage around in the bedclothes. Last night was pretty wild. She’s like an Olympic gymnast – so strong, but very feminine. I find panties but no remote. I’ll have to do it manually. I stroke her neck, feeling for the lump. She pushes my hand away.
“You said it,” she whispers.
“I know. I shouldn’t have. It was just… the heat of the moment.”
“You didn’t mean it?”
“Of course I meant it, it’s just not… possible.” I reach under the bed. No remote.
She suddenly pushes me on to my back, kneels over me. God, those breasts… Looking down, she smiles, the tears still wet on her face. This is weird. I should have downloaded Version 3 on Friday, when the recall notice came out.
“Power down, Michelle.” It’s the emergency cue. Nothing happens. In her other hand, the remote. She crushes it.