A robot kisses funny. The clank of metal on mouth. The cold, hard dispensing of love.
George sat back. No one told him the future would be so disengaging.
He remembered the accident, the emergency room, filling out paperwork, lungs chugging for air.
He remembered looking at his wife, already machine bound, chest an orchestrated pump.
He remembered the feeling of anxiety filling up his chest before the nurse gave him a sedative.
When he woke, he felt the difference immediately. Sure, he understood that his body would be stiff. He knew his eyes would need time to read their surroundings. Yes, he could eat. He could excrete from the other side. He could walk, talk, nod his head. But the doctor never said his soul would be absent, that the world would be nothing but artificial movements.
George’s wife pushed forward again. She’d been reading a manual on how to act human. Making love was a recommended act.
He repeated the motion of mouth on mouth. He tried harder, pushing her against the banister. And harder, their unmanned bodies too tough to break.
He continued the task at hand, grinding and lifting, lifting and grinding, waiting for his sensors to relay the next step, to navigate him to completion.