The Thinking Machine.

She was the last person I expected to come to me. In this town, with my line of work…

“I’ve got a job for you,” she said.

“Are you the job?” I asked.

Her giggle disturbed me. She leaned across my desk and pinched my tie like I was some chump who’d crumble at the slightest flirt. But she wasn’t getting to me. Not like that.

The worst part of me found it flattering. That’s what made me uncomfortable.

“You’re not the first pleasure model I’ve seen,” I said, though my experience was limited. “But you’re the first that ever walked into my office hoping to get plastic surgery. I only do bio, sweetheart. Now scram.”

As she slammed the door behind her, I picked up my phone to report the haywire android when I saw that my son was already calling me.

“Mom?”

“Yes dear,” I said, straightening my tie.

 

 

Featured image via University of Washington

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