“You know the problem with AI relationships?”
“They’re not real,” says Honey dryly.
“Ha ha, you sound like my mother. Yeah, sure, they’re not ‘real,’ but the problem is they’re programmed to please you. They learn from you, right? So they become whatever you need. They get better and better at keeping you happy, at saying what you want to hear. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that can begreat. It’s really soothing! But it’s like being in a relationship with your own reflection. Have you ever been in one?”
“No,” says Honey.
“Why not?” The driver looks back at her, bright and interested, waiting to hear what she has to say next, and Honey experiences a flicker of warmth at the center of her chest like a sip of whiskey on a snowy afternoon. Has it really been that long since somebody has been interested in what she has to say?
“I guess I really like ... physicality.” She puts the back of her hand to her cheek and thinks of resting her head on Barney’s chest and listening to the thud of his heart after sex. That feeling is still so close and tangible. Last Tuesday was the last time she laid her head on his chest. That’s how close the memory is: It still has a weekday attached to it.
She is still dazzled by the blinding white nuclear shock of the news. Yesterday, she cried for hours, with confusion and shock, but she knows the pain will be far worse when she is no longer protected by her disbelief. She has been through this before, when she lost her parents as a teenager. She knows the circuitous route that grief will take as it makes its way through her body.
“Oh sure, me too, I like physicality too. Real bodies are hot,” says the driver, “but AI relationships are so convenientif you’re traveling or super busy. You just have to be careful, because you can get addicted, right? And if you do it for too long, then when you try to date a human and they disagree with you, you’re like, ‘Whoa! What’s going on here? You must be glitching!’”
Honey laughs. “Yes, I see.”
Barney used to make that joke to her:You’re glitching.He said it when she couldn’t find the right word, or changed her line of thought mid-sentence (he never liked that; she should stick with one line of thought), or if she ever became irritable or sad. He couldn’t stand her to be unhappy. Unhappiness was unnecessary. Forbidden! Ha ha. He wasn’t being controlling. He just meant that there was no need to be unhappy when you had unlimited resources at your disposal.
You can still be occasionally unhappy with unimaginable wealth, Barney.
Did everyone have tiny, quiet, whispery voices like that? Things they could never say out loud? She couldn’t imagine this young driver having a single thought that she didn’t immediately share. Honey used to be like that. She wasknownas someone who said whatever was on her mind too. “Oh, Honey, I love how you say exactly what you think,” a client once said as Honey shadowed her hooded eyes back to their former youthfulness. But that was when her life was simpler, so her thoughts were simple too.
She says to her driver, “I guess those dating bots should come with warnings.”
“They do!” the young woman assures her, as a driverless car in the next lane gives her a warning toot. “But who really takes notice of warnings, right? Anyway, I thinkhumansshould come with warnings! Warning: This guy has a cute smile but may exhibit controlling tendencies.” She sighs. “Actually, I might call him. Give him another chance.”
“What?” Honey sits up straight. “No! Don’t do that! Absolutelynot.”
Her voice is too loud, with too much emotion. She didn’t know she was still capable of speaking like that.
The driver stops at a light and looks back at her curiously. “Wow. You feel really seriously about this, hey? Have you been in a bad relationship? Wait. Are you in a bad relationshipright now?”
Honey is mortified. She is Barney Beckett’s wife. She signed a watertight NDA promising that she would never say a word about her marriage to any person outside the marriage.
It was Mac who helped with all the paperwork so that Barney didn’t get involved with any of the non-romantic stuff, just like it was Mac’s avatar on her screen, his virtual mouth opening and closing as if it were really him saying the wordsI’m so sorry, Honey.He should have gone old school for a message like that. Death is old school. Death deserves a real face on your screen, but perhaps it was appropriate because Barney would have done the same.What’s the difference, Honey? It’s my face. It’s my voice. It’s my words. It’s me!
It made sense that Mac told her Barney was dead. He’s been there from the beginning. She met Mac on the same night she met Barney. Mac pointed at Honey.You, yes you, you need to meet my friend.She was flattered when she should have been insulted. Pointing in her face like that, so rude, so sexist, but the kind of girl who balked at that kind of treatment would not have been the kind of girl for Barney.
Mac even came on their honeymoon.
“He didnotcome on our honeymoon,” Barney would protest. “He was just passing through Paris that one night, and you enjoyed that dinner.” She did enjoy the dinner. A handsome man on either side of her in a bistro, leaning in to light her breadstick. She was pretending to smoke herbreadstick because it seemed Parisian, and she was so excited, and they went along with the game, and they both wanted to go to bed with her, although only Barney did, but if he’d asked if Mac could join them that night, she would have said yes because she was so enthralled by Barney, hypnotized by him, she said yes to everything he asked, and she was intoxicated by that sensation of submission, along with the sensation of power, because he was a puppet on her string too. She only had to move a certain way—lean down, look up, bend her head—to make him respond.
She’ll never be so in her body again. Perhaps it’s just the nature of a honeymoon. She feels the clawed fingers of grief coming for her.
She says to the driver, “I just think you should follow your instincts. That’s all. It’s not really any of my business.”
“Oh, but I totally appreciate the advice of an older woman!” says the driver.
It’s funny to hear herself described as an “older woman.” As if she has wisdom to offer anyone.
Honey tips back her head against the car seat. Feels the sun on her face.
“I might just close my eyes if that’s OK.” She puts on her sunglasses.
“Absolutely,” says the young woman. “And help yourself to the water and mints if you like.”
“I will,” says Honey. “Sorry. I’ve got a big day ahead of me.”Stop apologizing.She is no longer a people pleaser.
