Liz stepped off the bus in her new black dress and lime-green slingbacks, feeling self-conscious. Was her outfit too elegant? Too sexy? Did it show too much effort?
She recognized him immediately from the agency photo. He was waiting for her at the waterfront, leaning on the balustrade, the late afternoon sunlight turning his hair to gold.
“Hi, I’m Liz. You must be Harry.”
He smiled and a tiny voice in her head whispered, too handsome for you. His face could have advertised sunglasses or perfume; his body she wanted to undress on the spot.
But there was no immediate undressing; this was a proper date. He took her to a small wine bar and ordered a decent Cabernet that helped her relax. She had never done this before.
“So… what do you do?” she asked and bit her tongue, feeling stupid.
“Postdoc in anthropology,” he said.
She’d thought he would be a smooth talker. As it turned out, he was slightly geeky and shy, and frank to the point of awkwardness. No crude jokes, no bitching about exes, no politics—thank goodness.
“I’m sure girls adore you.”
“Yeah,” his smile revealed dimples on his cheeks, “must be because of my great conversation skills.”
As she got progressively tipsy, she moved closer to him, her knee touching his under the table, her hand on his leg, her lips brushing his ear as she said, “Let’s get out of here.”
They stepped out, his hand slipping around her waist, and he kissed her, slowly at first, gently, but as she pressed her body against his, the kiss got deeper and rougher and hotter, until she thought he would have her right there, up against a lamp post.
They barely made it to her apartment. She had believed that people tearing clothes off on the way to bed was a movie cliché—right up until the moment she ripped his shirt, fumbled with his belt and did some awful, twisted thing with his trousers.
“I want you,” she said. “God, I want you so badly.”
His desire was so genuine she was able to completely let go. No need to worry what he thought about her body, no need to compare herself with other women, no fear that he would share it all with his mates. Just one perfect night of wild sex. It would all be erased in the morning.
She woke up late, blissful and languid like a cat. The agency app icon on her phone was blinking. They wanted to know what she thought. She gave Harry the Sexy Scientist five stars. Sweet like that brainy nerd from your chemistry class, sexy like a Greek god. I came six times. Wholeheartedly recommended.
Something clanged in the kitchen.
Liz froze. The hissing of the espresso machine and then... humming?
What the fuck?
Rubbing her eyes, she walked into the kitchen and found him making two cups of frothy cappuccino.
“Good morning.” He smiled.
Her good mood evaporated.
“You were supposed to leave after...” Goosebumps rose on her arms. “You should leave, right now.”
“I’ve made some coffee.” He tried another smile, but the magic was gone.
“I can make my own coffee,” she said. “Please leave.”
He put the cups on the table, gently, and frowned. “Did I do something wrong last night?”
She took a tiny step backwards, clutching the phone in her hand. Don’t panic. “No, you were perfect, but...”
“You told me you dreamt about finding a guy like me, that you couldn’t believe that someone had finally —”
“—made you,” she cut in. “Harry, you’re not real.”
“No?” He spread his arms, his divine, naked form gilded by the morning sun. “Is this not real? It was pretty real to you last night.”
She swallowed hard. “Harry, you’ve been put together in a lab. They’ve constructed your character according to their customers’ wishes. They’ve fed you memories and info and —”
“Feelings, Liz. They installed feelings, to make me plausible.”
“But they will erase everything when you return.”
“No, they will erase you. I won’t remember your face, but I will remember the desire, the intensity, the reactions of your body. Do you think I’m just some kind of mechanical parrot, repeating the same thing over and over again?” The anger and hurt on his face looked very real. “I remember, I learn, I make choices. I feel.”
“I’m sorry.” Another tiny step backwards.
“No, I’m sorry, Liz. I have perfect memory; I remember what you said about men yesterday. Too childish, too insensitive, too unattractive, too unavailable.”
“Yeah, I’ve never had luck with real men.”
“But I am none of that,” he said, taking up all the space in her tiny kitchen.
“No, Harry, you are clever and gentle and very attractive.”
He smiled, but it was tentative and sad. “I want to remember you, Liz. I like you. You’re funny and pretty and smart. Won’t you give me a chance?”
Another step backwards. “I just need a quick shower, to clear my head. We’ll talk.”
She locked herself in the bathroom, breathing heavily, and tapped on the PerfectDate app. It had to be somewhere at the bottom of the page, the red Report Malfunction button. Her clumsy, sweaty fingers slid across the screen and pressed it without hesitation.
Liz waited for Harry to tear down the door and demand an explanation, to shout at her that she was a stupid, pathetic coward whom no man would ever want. Instead, there was a soft ping, a message from the agency. Done. You’re safe.
She unlocked the door with trembling hands, then tiptoed to the silent kitchen. Harry was slumped at the table, his head resting on his arms, the two cups of cappuccino still steaming beside his elbow.
He wasn’t breathing. She let out a deep sigh of relief.
Sorry for the inconvenience.
Our team will pick him up soon.
You will be fully refunded.
