“Why?”
She scowled. “Because I want to. It makes me feel better.”
“Does it?”
Her eyes narrowed. Had he just been sarcastic? Did they program robots with sarcasm, now?
“Yes.” She brushed past him, yanking off her thick rubber gloves. After stowing them under the sink, she washed her hands briskly. As the suds ran clean, she stared at her hands, the water still running in the background.
They’re clean. You washed them.
But what if she had missed something? After all, she’d scrubbed the toilet. There were so many germs in the toilet—horrible, invisible germs.
I wore gloves. They’re clean. I know they’re clean.
What if there was a microscopic tear? What if she took it on faith that she’d gotten clean enough, and the germs were left to fester on her skin? Foreboding loomed, her vision tunneling.
She reached for the soap and started again, scrubbing more thoroughly, scratching her nails against her palms to get the suds beneath them. When she rinsed the soap away, the feeling returned.
They’re not clean.
Again, she soaped her hands. This time, she wondered if her wrists were clean, as well. When she rinsed, she realized the gloves only came up to the middle of her forearm. She dipped her entire arm into the sink, scrubbing with the harsh dish soap, which she was sure would clean her.
Her breath came too fast, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
Damn it, I’m clean. I’m clean!
But the feeling, that looming portent of doom, wouldn’t abate. She couldn’t stop until it stopped, until it was sated.
When she reached for the soap again, a big hand caught her drenched wrist.
“They are clean,” the android said, shutting off the tap with his free hand. “Your skin will crack if you keep going.”
“How do you know?” she asked in a small voice.
“You washed them. They are clean.”
She shook her head, tugging at her wrist, trying to break free. “You don’t know. You can’t.”
“What do you think will happen if they are not clean?”
Her eyes darted. “I don’t… I don’t know. I’ll get sick. Something bad. Just something bad, okay?”
He studied her with his dark, steady gaze, saying nothing. Grabbing a swath of paper towels from the holder above the sink, he patted her dry meticulously. Her body shook with unsatisfied nervous energy. When he released her to throw away the sodden paper, her body swayed toward the sink again.
“Ophelia.”
She shuddered. Her name in that deep, dark voice…
Begrudgingly, she turned back to him. He was standing in front of her fridge, head ducked down as he perused her sparsely populated shelves.
“You are low on groceries,” he noted, emerging as he shut the brushed chrome door.
“I… I usually go shopping on the weekends.”
He nodded sagely. “Then we should go now. The weather is optimal for walking, but it will rain this afternoon.”
Her eyes bugged out of her head. “We? Who iswe?”
