It isn't as though the house
is dustier than it has been.
The quality of the laundering has not suffered.
Conditions, she thinks over the rim of her wine glass,
are largely unchanged, except for
a sly smirk when her husband thinks she isn't looking,
and what may be an answering wink
or may be their maid's left optical LED on the fritz.
She doesn't see the appeal, really,
of coy black rubber wheels at the ends of
long chrome legs, of pert metal cones on its chest
like pylons, molded aluminum hairstyle,
sassy chips of color at the ends of articulated steel fingers.
Of course if she didsee the appeal, that is
this would all be an entirely different issue,
It comes around and offers them both
more wine, and he accepts with a cheeky grin.
He probably has no idea his tie is on backward;
it has been since this afternoon,
when he took the maid into the garage to fix
"that sticking right wheel that's been giving her trouble."
She supposes she should be more upset.
It's awfully tacky, of course, that can hardly be argued
even more so than if the thing
actually had a pulse, a bedroom, or soft
living skin. But then it's also nice and
antiseptic, isn't it?
No friends to be gossiped to.
No begging him to leave her.
Nothing for her to deal with, except for
his poor acting as he cuts his meat and asks it sweetly
for another 4.6 grams of mashed potatoes.
As long as the silver gets polished,
she thinks, she doesn't really mind if meanwhile
the silver gets polished.
She pats her mouth with a napkin and stands.
No, no dessert, thank you. Please input
positivefeedback:delicious to the AutoChef 8000.
And don't hurry, dear. Go ahead and
enjoy your meal.
She can feel their romantic electromagnetism behind her
even as she turns to go.
This is not what it was made for, she knows;
but then, it is not what she was made for
either. They are living in the future, after all.
And what does the future owe them,
if not the reallocation