This story has Robot on Old man sex in it. Enjoy.

The Bently’s

By Chad Smalt

Mr. Bently gets up every morning and oils his wife. It’s not that she needs it so badly, he just worries. It was only one time, during sex - the first time, that he heard anything. He always took care of her very well, and she took care of him.

The mail order robot bride became a reality, a convenient one, shortly after the elderly began to over run the world. Your bride would come in a big box, like a refrigerator, a new box label was ordained for these unique deliveries: Special Contents Handle with Great Care. Robots were special, magical mysterious beings, even the simple ones that could only sweep or recite poetry in Latin. “Thaw me out when robot women are cheap and effective.” – Mr. Bently must have heard this on a Simpson’s re-run somewhere. It’s funny how life imitates the human imagination.

There was no such thing as Social Security anymore; it had been dismantled, piece by piece starting in the 2020’s. How many people still saved for their retirement? Everyone tried, a little. Most lost their nerve around the time of their scheduled mid-life crisis and spent it all on a trip to Vegas or some other lit up desert like wasteland. Mid-life was happening sooner and sooner, and lasting longer. With increased life expectancy, mid-life was nearing retirement age. The world, not that it noticed much, was becoming a massive shelter for poor elderly folks, in a state of crisis upon crisis.

There was an answer, of course, and it was robots; fully functional personal robots. Instead of a wife, or a husband, a pet, a savings account, above all else, it was working towards the day you could afford to buy and keep a robot, your own, completely personalized to your needs and desires. They were the perfect companion, a loyal friend, fixable, returnable, and replaceable, a loving spouse, and a robotic soul mate of your own designs. Of course there were regulations, safety controls, limits; the government couldn’t just let people do anything with their robots, but nearly everything was attempted.

A robot wife was the best an old man could hope for, a 24/7 friend, lover, medic, tool, cook, and maid. No child had to feel guilty, stuffing their parents into a home when a robot could easily take care of an elderly parent. The elderly were not such an issue anymore; they were taken care of by their robot wives, and were even financing it themselves. Robots were better in everyway, comparatively; the only bit of a problem was that, because of them, elderly folks were living even longer, and happier.

Mr. Bently worked in a factory, that, like every other, was packed full of robots. The best and almost only jobs left to have, for a man like Mr. Bently, were in the “human packed”, or “human crafted” industries. Robots were not fully understood or accepted. The human jobs were available because most consumers would pay more for products created and packed by human hands. This is not to say that robots and their work, was not praised, because it was, constantly, by everyone. Mr. Bently was lucky enough to have one of the human jobs, he had warm hands.

Mr. Bently packed boxes full of all types of hand crafted items for 36 years. His factory would take on contracts, usually from a small, “human goods” company selling over-priced junk. These outfits always specified exactly how their product was to be boxed and shipped. It was all designed to look and feel “human”. To accomplish this randomness was used, every item needed to look somehow different then the rest, unique. Consumers would often inspect their goods for minor flaws, and would be quite satisfied if they could find one or more.

For his last 3 months of work Mr. Bently had to learn to tie a complicated, very grand looking, bow around the top of a liquor bottle. For nine hours a day he would tie bows, stumbling over his used up thumbs, all 10 of them. This is when you dream about your robot wife. Exactly how she will be. What face will you pick out for her, her voice, her style, her fears, everything about her; like a tiny God.

Some of Mr. Bently’s co-workers could not wait until retirement. Not that there was retirement anymore; just when you had enough money to sign up for a robot, that was it. Some of the guys started early, buying separate pieces. They would argue that it is cheaper to assemble your robot piece by piece. But it is not hard to guess which piece was purchased first.

Robots could do anything, Mr. Bently knew that, and is partly why he wasn’t in a frantic hurry to get his. He wanted everything to be perfect, not just for himself. He was obsessed with robots, and his robot, from the very beginning, not an hour went by that he did not consider and re-consider the decisions he had made about his future wife. These thoughts filled his dreams, always constructing anew.

George, that was Mr. Bently’s first name, was lonely. Loneliness was the main force behind robots to begin with. The internet ads never pitched to families. George had been married, 27 years ago. It didn’t last long. He had long since forgotten what it was all about, how it started - the creamy middle and the bitter end. The only memory, vague, was the one he tried to forget. The one about how he felt as though half of his body was missing when they split up, the left half. Back then he was sure it was gone, it should have been, he could have sworn it clawed its way right out the door. It didn’t even say goodbye, just left. Still, sometimes, usually at work when he was tired, he would look down at his left side and feel its odd presence, as if it didn’t belong there, and the fact that it was there, couldn’t be good. Of course this was all imaginary, a crazy dream, but it stuck, like none of the rest did.

Most of the guys already had a collection of different, “adult masks” for their future wives; they had it all figured out. George was busy remodeling the second story bedroom; he hadn’t decided if he was going to sleep with her or not yet. Her name was going to be Laura. In George’s mind, she was already there, just not quite home yet.

Three years ago, George’s wife arrived, untouched.

George stood at the front window of his small two story home. He looked both ways, up and down the street, pressing his head all the way to the sill. It was 11:05 AM, the delivery man had told him - “around 10”; George was up at 8. He was a short-ish stocky old man, getting shorter and fatter all the time. He had short spiky grey hair with white highlights on top of a perfect ball shaped head. He was wearing the best looking shirt he could find, it had still been boxed up, far back in his closet, exactly as his wife had left it. He was not used to dressing up, not for anything, and he felt like something wasn’t right, like he was forgetting something.

He stared straight out his window now, smoothing down his finest shirt with both hands, traveling the curve of his pot belly and skipping over the buttons. He didn’t even notice as one button popped and bounced, ting! - off the window.

He was watching his neighbor watch him, when the delivery truck turned down his quiet street in the suburbs. He knew immediately that it was for him and took a deep breath before walking out to meet his new life.

“Here you go Mr. Bently; all set just sign here,” the delivery man said as he jumped off the back of the truck.

Mr. Bently eyed the man like your prom dates Dad would. He signed his name without looking, and then dragged the big box into his garage by himself, and shut the door. He couldn’t have said anything; he was just now remembering to breathe again.

George stood in front of the box and smoothed down his shirt again. This time he silently cursed his belly as he hands flew to his sides. There was nothing he needed to do, everything was set and ready to go, he knew that. Still he had all the manuals and tools, as well as the knife in his hand, just in case. Before he cut, George sincerely promised the un-open box - “I vow to loose some weight.”

The first day was a surreal dream for George; he was on a slow trackless roller coaster all day. He spent nearly all the time staring in awe at his wife, Laura. She did everything she was supposed to, everything he had wanted her to do. Laura was his most perfect creation.

“Would you like some more coffee dear?” Laura asked as she spun around, the coffee splashing a mini torrent in the pot.

George was sitting at his small kitchen table reading the latest copy of Robotic Times. Exactly as he imagined it would be.

“Sure, I’ll have just a smidge more, hon.” George already felt his belly like an oven, burning hot.

Laura was on a random cycle between, doll, hon, and dear, it was “George” if anyone else was near. She poured the coffee with a smile and sat down. Her posture was nearly perfect, only slightly slouched; George didn’t want her to be too perfect, more human. Laura was an average looking woman, for a human that is, she was 5’6, thin, brownish blonde hair, with brown eyes, nothing special. Laura was a typical 40 something house wife that could lift a car, if she needed to. She wore long patterned dresses, and kept her hair in a tight bun; for a robot she was very plain, just as George decided. Laura slowly folded her hands and placed them on the table, about to go into a “small talk” algorithm.

“Hey!” George began talking before he could pull the cup away from his lips, coffee splattered down his chin onto his shirt. The cup hit the table and danced around in circles before settling.

“Look out the window, the family of robins is back in my bird house!” They both moved to the window, Laura matched his excitement. Six years ago George had spent most of the winter constructing a large bird house, and now he watched as his family of robins moved back in.

“I don’t know why they left, but I’m glad they’re back.” George was standing just behind Laura, trying to decide if he should put his hand around her waist or on her shoulder.

“I’m glad they’re back too.”

They both continued to stare out at the birds fluttering from perch to perch. George had placed a perch or three on each side.

“I love you hon.”

“I love you too George.”

George slid his hands into his pockets.

George pulled open the heavy curtains covering the big bay windows looking across his short front yard to the black road. The sunlight lit up his living room and reflected off Laura’s face as she remembered to squint. He liked the idea of someone, by happenstance, noticing him and his wife sitting at home quietly spending the time, like two hands on a human crafted clock.

George was writing letters now, so suddenly he wanted to know what everyone else he had ever known was doing. He went though the yearbook, he tried to remember, he wrote about it all. He felt awake from an illness, working for so long and now he had stepped into his dream and was truly awake. He half wanted to go to a high school reunion or get back together with ex-girlfriends, just for a night. Most of his letters were not deliverable, not in any real way. Finding an address that wasn’t a cemetery plot was the hardest part.

George heard steps crunching the gravel leading to his front door; he liked the sound, no one could sneak up on him. George already knew it was the mail man. He got up quickly and motioned Laura to follow him; he took her hand at the window. Casually George smiled at the mailman, even though he had not noticed George and Laura standing side by side in the window. The mailman shoved some junk in the mail slot and started walking off.

George tapped gently on the window and pulled his smile back on. The mailman looked up and waved, even before he saw who it was.

George waved back, he was more content then ever, “Wave to the man hon,” he nudged his wife.

Laura looked around and raised her hand, “I like the beach,” she said.

“Oh he is already gone; we will both get him tomorrow.”

“Will I need my swimming suit?” Laura asked as George resettled himself in his lazy chair.

“No hon, don’t worry we can get him together tomorrow. The beach has too much sand.”

George sat back down and wrote out his opening sentence again: I don’t know if you remember me, but I am George and I’m an old man now.

“Sure sure, come on in Sam,” George was pushing open his front door, walking backward into it, the door was sticking. He had to fix it. “You even brought your wife I see,” George smiled warmly at Sam’s slightly older model, Jen.

“Just thought I would stop by and see how you were adjusting, you two I should say,” Sam was forcing his gaze to wander aimlessly around the living room, slowing over the fake paintings, and old bowling trophies. When Laura stood up, he looked straight into her eyes.

“Hello there, I’m Sam, George’s friend, and this is my wife Jen, she is like you,” Sam shook Laura’s and like a child.

After some overkill on the friendly and small talk they all settled in their chairs. The girls were talking weeds and flowers - not that either had ever planted any.

Sam leaned forward, “They’re great aren’t they?” He had a sly smile on his face and was intently searching George’s wrinkled eyes. “The other day I tried fondling her breast all day, I just clamped my hand right on there, and it worked! She didn’t say anything all day. Tomorrow I’m going to try it with the right one!”

George laughed good naturedly, “You shouldn’t do that Sam.”

“Why the hell not man,” Sam was delighted to be discussing his wife.

“She is your wife Sam,” George stated quietly.

“Well yeah she is my wife, that’s what is so great about these. You can do anything you want with them, all the time, she never complains, or has any problem with me, doesn’t nag or make me feel bad in any way, its perfect. None of that emotional bullshit that my real wife put me though either, ex wife I should say,” Sam was sorry he had brought her up.

“I’m not sure there is no emotional part Sam; it’s just a little different that’s all.”

Sam sat back in his chair and watched George nibble at his carrot cake.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” George offered.

“You really love her don’t you? It’s only been a couple of weeks and…” Sam trailed off silencing his thoughts.

“Yes Sam, I do,” George stated his fact.

Sam looked over at the girls on the other side of the room, cycling through different conversations. How long does it take before they need to repeat he thought?

“Well forget all that junk I said, I’m happy for you George. I knew you would get a wife and I know she will make you happy,” Sam said this with confidence.

They both smiled and sat back until the light from the windows began to dim.

“Yeah stop over anytime, we don’t go no-wheres,” George said this very politely, and leaned over to Sam, “I’m trying to teach Laura to wave.”

“Wave goodbye to our friends Laura,” George prompted her.

Laura leaned over to Jen, “George says the beach has too much sand, that’s why we can’t go.”

“Oh alright Laura dear, see you next time,” Jen smiled this as she walked away.

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Excuse me, hello, are you George Bently?” George was slowly gliding out to the mailbox when an older woman about his age, appeared walking towards him. She was dressed up, like church on Sunday. She looked good to George, except that her shoes were scraping the sidewalk at every other step. George looked down; trying to discern what was causing the problem.

“Yes, I am George Bently,” he said to her shoes as he stuffed his hand and most of his arm into the mailbox. “I’m supposed to get a letter back one of these days,” he explained.

“Oh! I’m one of your letters.” The woman almost snorted in glee at her excitement, but managed to stifle it into a sneezing cough followed by a clearing of the throat. She composed herself; George smacked the mailbox, it was empty.

“My name is Robin Sooker, I received one of your letters,” Robin stated quite proudly. She held out a box of cookies. George thought she was a girl scout, and then he remembered his first letter was to a Miss Sooker. He had written so many and this was the only one that was returned, not even returned, this woman was not a letter. The wrinkles on George’s head moved about. She was a woman, a real woman.

George’s mind raced.

“What did I write you about?” George asked suddenly.

“Why, you wrote me about your old job and how you were hoping to meet some of your old friends again, since you were free now.”

“Oh!” George started to remember, “Yes, how have you been Robin?” George looked into his house as she talked. He couldn’t see Laura, but he knew she was there, and he knew Robin didn’t.

Robin said something about her job, and how she had hated it so. She talked about her cats, her yarn, and the one grandson that had so unfortunately lost his mind at 24. George turned back, his eyes grazed over her. Robin looked down to the ribbons on her shoes, not 10 minutes ago she wasn’t ready she thought. She smiled to herself. The ribbons must be just right.

“I remember you George, you and the bowling team you put together in high school, even got a bunch of the basketball players to join,” Robin looked George square in the eyes now.

“You said something about it once, I only overheard, something about how the wrist action required for basketball and bowling was nearly the same and that’s why your team was so successful. I remember that George.”

“I had almost forgotten about that myself,” George was flustered, he was not used to being surprised, excited or happy.

They both stood like statues, no birds landed.

“Look Robin….I….maybe we…” George hadn’t begun to think himself through his own thoughts. He looked down at his slippered toes and moved his feet back off the cracks in the sidewalk.

“Did you ever think there was too much sand at the beach? Its like you go there to see some waves and you just get sand, all over your toes.”

Robin laughed.

“Look all I’m sayin is that the damn sand ought to be leavin the waves alone alright?” George was animated, his hands flapping. He stepped onto the grass now, and looked down as if he was too tired to go on.

“Are you alright?” Robin asked a bit frightened and curious.

“Yes Robin I am quite fine. It was very nice meeting you, I’m sorry I have to go now, but maybe I will see you again.”

“Oh ok,” Robin was disappointed in the “maybe”.

George shuffled back to his living room without his mail.

“Are you sure its ok hon?” George asked again.

“Yes dear we are supposed to.”

“But do you want to?”

“George we were supposed to months ago, of course I do.”

“Is tonight really ok? I know it’s sudden.” George was standing at the foot of the bed in his boxers, fidgeting with the tag in the back; it was folded over and would never lay flat again.

“I am ready hon,” Laura was already undressed in her bed.

George climbed clumsily into the bed like it was a mountain and he, a baby.

Laura was already “oooh-ing” and “ahhh-ing”, she could be very sexy.

George crawled on top and began to kiss shyly. He pulled down the front of his boxers, he wouldn’t take them off. This had driven his other wife crazy.

Soon he was overcome, suddenly nothing mattered so much, he was making love to a robot, and he didn’t care. He thought of robins. He pretended it was all about the birds. He kept going. George was continually looking across the room and out the window; he felt something was there, flying maybe.

Still, George was having fun, he hadn’t done this in a long time, he felt like a kid. He thought he remembered this. It was never this easy before, he knew that.

There was a noise; a squeaking, squishing, aching noise. Something like a snap. George pushed himself up on his hands and turned his head quickly to the window. Nothing. He looked down to ask Laura, and saw both of his hands pressing into her face. He quickly pulled them off and fell back onto her as a result. George scrambled, kicking his legs and trying to push himself off in as fast as he could manage. Finally he rolled himself over and off of her, and it was all over.

George stared at the ceiling. Laura went on sleep mode.

George was trying very hard to contain himself but his chest was heaving and his best shirt was flapping open and closed like an awful, hungry mouth. The new button didn’t last long, it was gone.

“Is there something wrong with her? I mean I distinctly heard a noise, it wasn’t a normal noise, all operations are supposed to be below .03db, I know.” George was haphazardly throwing out his worries and knowledge of the hand book at the repairman.

“When did you hear the noise Sir?” asked a very bored, robot repair man. They were all sitting in a small receiving room, number five; George, Laura and Jim. The repair shop was a cross between a doctor’s office, with fake plants and dead music, and an automotive workshop, with grease and rock.

“What time is it?” George suddenly asked.

“Its 8:00am Sir, we just opened…” the repairman’s voice trailed off.

“Oh, the noise well,” George clamed, “…well it was last night.”

“Can you tell me anything about how this noise may have occurred?”

“We were in bed,” George said staring intently at the mans name tag, it said Jim, but the “m” was in pen, instead of machine sewed. George looked slowly up to Jim’s perplexed face, “Jim, it’s not what….”

“Sir,” Jim cut him off and waved his hand as if to erase the scene, “you seem knowledgeable and I have thoroughly checked your robot, there is nothing wrong that could cause a….noise. Why don’t you just go home and if…”

“No, did you check her voice/conversation matrix? I noticed that she has a glitch or some confusion with certain words, like wave.”

“Ok, Sir, I can check on that easily for you.”

“Why won’t you tell me what time it is already?” George was agitated.

Jim looked at George, searching his wrinkles for a moment, and checked his watch again. “Perhaps you would like to wait out front and have some coffee?”

George nodded but didn’t move, “You know there is a lot of sand at the beach, that’s what she says, Laura, and the waves don’t like that, not at all.”

Jim guided George out the door. “I’ll let you know when I’m finished, I’m sure there is nothing wrong with your Laura.”

George turned around quickly, “Do you think I hurt her?”

“No, it’s just a robot.”

George stared at the man in confusion.

“A robot can be fixed Sir, there is nothing to worry about,” Jim stated this with pride.

“What is it Sam,” George asked in a hurry. He was standing at his door, on the threshold, swinging it open and closed. “We just got home from the doctor, I mean repairman, what do you need?”

“Oh I’m sorry to hear that,” Sam used to be a salesmen, “is everything alright George?”

“Yes I believe it is ok,” George’s attention wavered and left.

“That’s good to hear George, I came over because you look like you could use some fun George.” George just started at Sam’s big nose, thinking.

“You know George, Jen can be very friendly and hot. Laura is a good looking woman too George,” Sam said this very carefully and waited for a reaction. George scratched his nose.

Sam swatted George’s hand away. “Ok George, think about it, we could have so much fun, did you ever think about the two of them, together, or we could trade, just for a while George, hell you can barrow Jen right now if you want,” Sam was overly excited and George noticed, he was paying attention to it all now. He heard the word fun too many times, and the last few minutes came rushing back in reverse and then fast forward.

George didn’t say anything. This confused the old salesmen immensely. George’s chest was heaving again; he was trying to think of what he should feel. What should he do? All he could hear in his head was, “It’s just a robot.” He thought if his wife was a real wife, he would know exactly what to do. All he could figure out was that he was angry.

A button popped off his shirt as another breath was sucked heavily into this old lungs. It flew at Sam and bounced off his arm. George was satisfied with this and slammed the door at Sam. George drew the curtains, and turned off the lights, he sat in the dark, asleep.

The next day George woke up early; he woke up to darkness. There was only a hint of light to go by, the very first, very blue. George unfolded himself and watched his feet climb the stairs.

Laura was lying on her back, her hair lying neatly on the pillow like a small halo around her face, she hadn’t moved all night. George tried to sneak open the door and slowly, a step at a time, move to the bed. Laura heard everything, and opened her eyes to see George staring down at her. George didn’t say anything, and so Laura was silent. Sometimes George thought about her instincts; she knew, and he had to guess.

Only after George noticed that the light from the window had become bright, did he reach out for the bed stand drawer, and pulled out a small can of oil. He unscrewed the top, still looking at Laura; she was sitting up now, even stretching.

There was a small eyedropper floating in the can, George squeezed its rubber top and watched as the black liquid rose, and filled the small tube.

“Ok hon.”

This was their routine.

Laura spun herself around and deftly popped open a small service hatch in her lower back. George oiled.

Laura snapped herself closed and smoothed her night gown down around her legs. “What would you like for breakfast dear?” she asked moving towards the door. George didn’t answer really, he was following the new light with his old eyes, it became day light so quickly. Morning was ending as soon as it began.

“Wait for your oil hon.”

Laura turned, curious, and then sat back down.

The eyedropper filled black again and emptied, drop, drop.

George pushed the oil can back in its drawer, and stood up. Laura stood by him. George’s eyes were adjusting to the light.

“Ready for breakfast dear?”

“Wait,” George half shouted, half questioning himself. George looked around the room for something. He was in a hurry now. He saw the clock and it struck him.

“You need your oil, sit down hon.”

“But George…”

George slammed the drawer closed.

“It’s late. It’s far too bright.”

Laura sat down quickly and George started dropping.

George let out a long groan, something like a camel mooing its last pain away.

George stopped.

“Laura,” he said slowly, “did someone else…,” his voice wavered and left him.

George sat just behind Laura as she waited for him, but he his eyes were drilling through the cracks in the hardwood floor, as if there might be answers crammed in between the crumbs.

George looked at the back of Laura’s head, her hair, it was perfect, she didn’t even reach the bathroom and it smelled of the peach shampoo he had bought her. His eyes followed the folded night gown down her arm and to her side, her white lace melted into the bed spread, as did she, into the room. The curve of her back was beautiful all the way down, down to the tiny opening. There was oil dripping inside, gears and wire.

George pushed his eyes from the black hole with his right hand, palm to his face.

“Ok hon, its time for breakfast.”

“It’s just a robot George, it’s just a robot…those two…,” George was talking to himself in hushed breaths. He was alone now, standing with his back to the window, studying his shadow. The black line on the floor bent up right at the bed side and made it no further.

“She is just a robot. She…it is just…”

George took a step forward and watched his shadow grow across the bed and then disappear among the others.

“No no no. Not to me. Not me.”

George suddenly grabbed all the blankets off the bed with his claws, and flung his arms backwards over his head. He stood with the sheets and quilt drooping over his head. He felt like a little kid and this was his ghost costume.

Five minutes went by under the blankets, and then one more. George spoke, “Timber,” and fell on the bed limp.

Another minute went by, George was thinking.

George jumped up suddenly, stood straight and held up one finger, as if it had an idea in its tip. He was awake now. George found his old laptop in another box all taped up. He pulled it out cords in all, slid it under his shirt and walked right out the front door.

“I’ll be back hon.”

George drove himself right out of town. There was a library he remembered, in a sideways place, lost. There was one computer and a librarian; she was even older then he was.

All of the books smelled old, even the newest of them had a permanent dampness that would never lift. George found the computer and quickly unplugged its Ethernet cord. He flipped open his laptop and found a connection almost instantly.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Yes, check my accounts; I have savings, a house, and a car.”

“You know this is illegal.”

“Yes, can you help me?”

“We can get you anything you need old man.”

“I need to disable a safety protocol, the love/hate control. I need to disable up to level 2.34.”

“That is a serious hack old man; I almost want to ask what you plan on doing with something like that.”

“Can you get it for me?”

“It’s going to cost you old man.”

“I know that.”

“Sending now, if you ever contact us again, don’t do it from that library.”

“Ok, thanks.”

George carefully turned the doorknob to his own home, trying to be quiet at 10am. He remembered sneaking home late when he was a kid and then when he was married; it never worked. Laura was standing just inside the door watching it slowly open. She looked at George with her head cocked to one side like a curious dog.

George held up the disk, “I got you a new upgrade.”

“Oh I wondered if something was wrong George - is it my oil, is there something wrong with me.”

“No,” George said quietly. “This will just help us hon. I will install it while you sleep tonight so that it won’t bother you too much.”

“Ok dear,” Laura smiled at her husband.

George sat down in his lazy chair, he was already tired. “Is it time for bed yet?” he asked.

Laura giggled.

Morning was warm; a slow hazy light filtered into the bedroom and made everything lazy. George was awake, but he was dreaming, he had slept very well. He remembered everything about his dream, he was reliving each part. George could think of nothing else, he didn’t have to. Laura was already up, she was waiting on him. George just lay in bed, his mind blank, he was just happy.

Only after every part of him was awake, did George sit up and slide his legs off the side of the bed and let his feet land on the carpet. George sat in his droopy night shirt with his shoulders slumped and his hair smashed to the left side of his head. He looked happily drunk, or in some other state. Laura stood up, and walked around the bed to George. She stood directly in front of him for a moment. George looked up at her, it took him some time, but he made it to her eyes.

Laura looked back into George’s eyes, as she was meant to. With no warning, she casually pushed out her hands towards George and grabbed his throat with both. George looked down and watched her grip tighten; he could see her metal skeleton move just under her skin. Laura squeezed. George started to gasp for air, as much as her grip would allow. Still he just lay there; it was only his instincts acting up. George could have fought back, but he didn’t. He wasn’t quite sure what was happening, this was the first time his Laura had done anything…on her own. He did not know what to do, and so he did nothing. He submitted to her will, guessing that she knew what was best for him; she was his wife after all. A few things snapped. George started to cry, nothing much, just a few tears that would not stay put. He could have reached around to the emergency switch, and turned Laura off. He could have fixed her. Laura squeezed. George’s arms were limp, down at his sides like wet newspapers. Soon his legs began to feel the same, and then his neck. George’s head fell backwards, his mouth hung open. George was gone.

Laura let go. She walked down the stairs and pulled out the vacuum cleaner. Laura pushed the machine around the living room; she hadn’t had time for that one room yesterday. Then she stopped, and nothing moved. Laura was done.