Human (boyxboy)

AI

Human

Someone once told me that it was easier to love the perfect, than to love the imperfect.

It’s strange how something imperfect can seem so perfect in another’s eyes.

I guess it’s true then.

That beauty lies in the eye of the beholder.

____________________

I’ve seen this many times before.

My father types a command into the laptop, and he jerks upright with a shudder and a wheeze. Compressed air flowed beneath silicone skin, triggering actuators that raised his arms and lift the corners of his mouth into a demure smile.

He seems to compose himself, eyes panning the room where he stood fixed to the platform—tubes and wires running down to his ankles. He blinks, lashes casting beautiful shadows over royal blue eyes.

He registers my father first, lowering his head into a gentle bow.

“Master,” He greets with the most pleasing voice to my ears—gentle, soft, and surprisingly, human.

Father nods, bowing his head with an acknowledging smile.

He approaches his creation with something in his hands.

He—it—lowered his gaze to register the item in my father’s hand.

It was a pair of glasses.

He places them upon the bridge of his nose, sliding the slim, almost unnoticeable tips behind his ears.

“Better?” Father asks.

His creation nods with a grateful smile. “Yes Master.”

He blinks, then turns his face toward me.

I cannot help but meet his—its—mechanical gaze.

“Good evening,” The last droid paused to adjust the material sitting on his nose, “Young Master.”

_____________________

I was five when I first fell in love.

Strangely enough, I didn’t fall in love with the girl who sat beside me in school. Neither did I fall in love with the girl next door. Nor did I fall in love with the daughter of my Mother’s best friend.

I fell in love with AI.

The second his beautiful, mechanical gaze met mine. I fell in love with what I thought was perfect.

Something that did not exist in this world.

He was lovely.

His eyes held the gentle waves of the ocean, the beauty of the night sky.

I remembered asking my Father how he made them. Those eyes that felt as if they contained every single fragment of our broken skies.

How he made something so perfect.