In his garage, the doors locked. Shut off, no monitors, no earpiece linked to his communication device. This space, this time alone, reinvigorated him and made his marriage of thirty years unflappable. He pried the nails in the lid away from the crate delivered only hours ago, liking the feral squeal of the metal tearing simulated wood. Packing peanuts snowed a flurry through the crack. He hauled the lid aside and leaned it against the unmarred workbench.
As the peanuts fell away, her face appeared, closed eyes, drifting smile touching the light pink of her lips. Sleeping, it appeared. Her brown hair had been bobbed and the sweeping curve of it pointed forward in front of her ears, the rest of the length lay gracefully against the slope of her art nouveau neck. The dimple at the base of her throat sloped into a flawless horseshoe adjoining her clavicles, and the sprinkle of freckles pooled sensually at the base of that horseshoe. A single hand emerged from the snowdrift, lengths of thin finger topped with flesh pink manicured nails, the small right angle at the delicate wrist, alabaster skin. It was exactly – every last detail – the way he wanted her. Brushing aside the peanuts clinging to her nightshirt, he reached around the curves above her hips and lifted her from the packing crate.
Into the folding metal chair, he arranged her limbs. And for a prolonged moment, he stood there, a fist crammed into his jaw, as he admired her. The teardrop of her breasts, punctuated with a yolk of areola and nipple, feeling as they should when they pressed against his shoulder, not jelly like silicone and not sloppy like a water balloon. The slope of her ribcage and the curl of her abdomen, unmarred with a navel. The strings of her panties resting on the tiny shelf of her hips. Knees flat and square with taut tendon drawing lines up through her thighs, down into her calves. Dainty feet with the scale of toes marking five adagio notes.
He ran a finger along her cheek, down into the jaw, tracing along to the upswing of her neck. A loving touch, marveling at the perfection of her skin. Even the details of fine filaments of peach fuzz hairs at the nape of her neck, the shoulder.
It was exactly like her skin, twenty years ago. Every single time, they got that part right, and it still knocked him stunned.
In the crate, screwed by two boards to hold it in place, was the device. It was as thick as a dinner plate, but the square of the palm of his hand. A touch screen marked the top, machine burnished metal contained the microelectronics. He held his finger against the touch screen until a low glow rolled over the Plexiglas. A single word – HELLO – and the company logo of an ideogram of a face recognizing its reflection.
She opened her eyes. Almond and light brown with a circle around the outer edge of the iris of pure black. They always got that right too. He watched her focus on him, and the touch of smile brightened.
"Hello," she said, the voice a breath, little more than a whisper.
"Hello," he said.
Her smile intensified without being intimidating. "You hold the remote."
"I do."
"Do I mark you to the remote?"
"Please."
She blinked, a solitary, rapid flick of eyelids. He had been marked. "Shall I introduce myself, or do you already have a name for me?"
"Your name doesn't matter."
Not the slightest dip in her smile, or concern on her brow. "OK. We bypass that." She looked into the crate, searching the packing. "Shall I get dressed?"
"Your clothes do not matter."
Still not a ripple on her expression. Still the peaceful unconcern, the welcoming smile. The air of a creation too important to be concerned of details that might turn destructive. "What is your name?"
"I am David."
"Hello, David, keeper of the remote."
"Hello."
He did not move, held the remote in his hand, with his finger still touching the glass. Soothing pastels swirled under the Plexiglas, marking the edges of his finger, and when he involuntarily jerked with a shot of anticipation, the colors reacted with a flurry of brightness, rollicking around the touch. Still he stared, admired. And still she sat in the folding chair, letting him ogle without showing any distress.
She arranged her legs appropriately, perhaps to entice and encourage. Her panties fell on the promises they offered. She asked, "Am I to pleasure you?"
"Not in the way you may be programmed," David said.
"Yes, David," she said. "You know I am designed to accommodate."
"I'm not interested in your accommodations."
"Yes, David." She moved her legs back into place so they sloped away and down. She sat in the chair and said nothing, occasionally blinking to show activity, making her breathing more pronounced to give the correct simulations. She smiled, blinked her eyes, tilted her head. Pigmentation lilted into cells to bring color to her cheeks. And she watched him without intrusiveness, without expectation.
He moved to the workbench. Her beautiful eyes followed him. He took a power drill from the hook and gave the trigger a squeeze. The bore bit whipped into a blurred cone with a lethal tip.
She did not flinch. Tilted her head a single degree to show interest.
He held the drill. Squeezed the trigger and it yanked from the torque. He held the remote in the other hand pinching it between his fingers so she could see the swirling colors growing more agitated.
"Who is the keeper of the remote?" he asked over the monosyllabic jazz of the power drill.
"You are, David."
"Yes, I am." He jammed the bore bit into her hand, the metal ripping strips and curls of that perfect skin away, snapping through refined plastics, and tearing at taut rubbers. A spray of sticky, luminescent lubricants struck his cheek.
Her expression melted. Exquisite signs of confusion defying the uncanny valley. Conflicts within her. Self-preservation combating the desire to please the keeper of the remote. "What are you doing, David?"
He jammed the drill into her upper arm, the bit grabbing and seizing so her arm thrashed against the back of the folding chair. Then into her upper thigh, where the skin and meat shredded away and slapped onto the concrete of the garage floor.
He dropped the power drill and it clattered as it bounced. And in one swift move, he backhanded her, rocking that graceful head. Her hair sizzled around her face as she returned her jawline to the correct position, and he heard the low murmur of gyroscopes working to maintain the balance. Her eyebrows knitted above the bridge of her nose while her skin shouted with lividity, pigment dumping into the individual cells. The back of his hand pulsated from the blow – it probably hurt him more than it did her – but it was still so satisfying.
"Why are you hurting me?"
"We've only begun," David said, passing the remote shouting with zipping, bright hues. He sauntered to the aluminum baseball bat, a wonderful antique he procured for this very purpose. It was well scarred even though he had bought it vintage new, still cocooned in shrink wrap he had peeled away. He raised it over his head, stretching both arms into the upswing, and crushed it down, bashing into her shoulder, pulverizing skin, plasticine flesh, electrostatic rubber that contracted under the slightest of charges. "Why?" she kept asking as he brought the bat down, "Why?" with each satisfying, wet clunk, "Why?" as bits of her broke off, shattered away, crushed down, splashed across. "Why?" as he took shivering joy in snapping off each of those delicate toes. David was precise in not damaging her head, focusing the bites of the bat on her hands, her wrists, her knees, her shins.
Drawing this out as long as possible.
Her eyes drizzled with tears while her mouth worked. "I've done nothing wrong," she said, and her voice started buzzing with the failure of electronics. It became creepy. No longer holding the sorrowful tones of one unable to comprehend why her protector was killing her, the machine was failing, and now it began losing its fun.
What remained of her lay on her side on the garage floor, limbs broken, strings of skin splayed. One pupil was blown wider than the other – never had that happened before – but she was still able to track his movements.
The sledge hammer with the size ten head leaned against the spotless worktable. Her eyes marked him as he hefted it, testing the weight with the bend of an elbow. Planted his foot, dropped the sledge and swung as its arc dipped, up and around and down again. Dead center above her ear, whump and bang, the slight crackle of the last of the electricity, and one of her eyes dropped from the devastated skull.
Her jaw twitched under the square of sledge. Then stopped moving altogether. The square of remote went black on the workbench.
Sweat drizzled from the exertion. He huffed a final, cleansing breath. Then took the crate, lay it on its side. With the wide, water-proof head of the push broom, he swept all her bits back into the crate. Dropped a rag of towel onto the floor and shoved it around with his foot to mop the luminescent lubricating fluid, kicked the towel into the crate. Hefted it upright. He touched the electronic paper on the side of crate, made a selection. Touched LIFETIME WARRANTY. Selected the return address on the electronic paper and locked it. Then he nailed the crate shut, whistling as he banged.
The first time, the company balked at the destruction and honoring the warranty. Yet, he argued the company designed her to bring pleasure to a human. This was the pleasure sought. Begrudgingly, they capitulated, specifically because he renewed his warranty yearly, and that renewal was not cheap.
They tried a workaround. Future versions, she had been designed to question why she was in pain, why she was being hurt, the company gambling the human would take huge precautions to protect her like a child. A human protecting her would be less apt to need that lifetime warranty.
Fail.
It only made David want to thrash her more.
He took his shirt off and wiped down. Tossed the shirt in the trash. Got another one exactly like the discarded one and climbed into it. He recalibrated himself, getting his breathing back to normal. Over the past twenty years it took longer and longer for him to calm.
David closed the garage door and locked it with his thumbprint.
"I never will know what you do in there, will I?" Ambrosia barked.
He started, felt a jolt. Regained every scrap of calm and blank and rearranged it on his face. "You know exactly what I do in there, honey. I decompress."
"Yeah, whatever." She flipped away from him and rotated on her heel.
It didn't matter how long she had been standing outside that garage door. A part of him almost wished she heard what went on inside. Almost.
She said, "I need all the dirt in the garden revitalized. You aren't doing anything tomorrow." It was not a question, but a statement. "You pack it up and haul it off."
"Yes, dear," he said.
"Be sure to tell them to add nutrients for flowers. Last time you asked for fruits. Flowers aren't fruits, David. I thought you knew that."
"Yes, dear," he said. His face remained saintly calm.
"I want that dirt delivered by Thursday. You use your money and pay extra for that."
"Yes, dear," he said.
She rotated on her heel again, facing him. She was all floral madras print in gaudy yellows and oranges. Flip flop sandals smashed paper thin. Despite all the rolls of fat, the waddles hanging off her neck, the flaps dangling under her arms, he could almost see what remained of that sexy little horseshoe divot at the base of her throat, sprinkled with freckles. Except now, the freckles had degenerated into age spots. "Flowers, David. Not. Fruit."
"Yes, dear." There was a dot of luminescence on the inside of his hand. Heshoved his hand into his pocket, sure she didn't notice. When he brought itback out, he noticed the skin was torn, probably from the sledge. He hid itback in his pocket and skittered to start moving dirt in the garden.,\"4Ý