How can men fall in love with bots? They do. I’m not the only one. The guy who helped set her up said something I never forgot. He said robots are constantly in a good mood. They are always cheerful, even-tempered. They don’t have headaches, go through menopause, get sick, have mood swings. They’re always there. Always ready. He said they are changing people’s lives, giving them happiness and pleasure. I thought I might get bored. But I never did. I never do. I love being with her. It gives me such peace. Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot? I can see you reading this, horrified. Disgusted. You must be even angrier. You must be even more disappointed.
I adored making love to you. But as the years went by, you needed it less. You wanted me less. I felt like you didn’t find me attractive anymore. I hated my aging body, my paunch. And when I tried to reach out to you, physically, I could tell you weren’t in the mood, so after a while, I just gave up. There was no closeness between us anymore. Nothing sensual, nothing sexual. It fizzled out of our lives. Didn’t you see that? Didn’t you miss it? I needed the nearness sex gave us. It was part of our love, of our marriage. I desired you so much. I still do, Clarissa. But you closed that door. So what was I to do? All those intimate places I loved about your body, your pussy, your mouth, your skin, your smell, all that, you closed them away, little by little. I never knew why. I never dared ask.
I know what you did for me. You helped me fight cancer and you helped me heal from it. You were there with me in the hospital, during the treatment, every single day. You were there when I was convinced I was going to die, when I lost all my hair. You were there. I made it because of you.
What is our life, Clarissa? What is it made of? A patchwork of tenderness, lust, and regret, of time ticking by, of this modern world taking its toll on our emotions, our intimacy, our dreams.
Now you know. You know everything there is to know about me. If you want to talk to me, call me. Perhaps you have things to say, in spite of your anger. If not, I understand.
I’m just a man, Clarissa. Just an ordinary man, burdened by his secrets, his woes, his failures, his little victories. I still love you.
François
Clarissa put the letter down with a trembling hand. François had said it all. He had been brave, she thought, no more lies; he had kept nothing back. Now, yes, she knew. He had asked, “Is this worse for you because Amber is a robot?” Yes, she thought it was. She’d never forget the shock she felt in the purple room, when she understood there was nothing human about her husband’s mistress. Perhaps other wives would have preferred a robot to a woman.
Not her. The idea of a subjugated android, handpicked with care, painstakingly encoded in order to correspond to François’s demands and custom-made to his own pleasure, disturbed her, just as Mrs. Dalloway’s configuration had been centered on Clarissa’s personal trauma, without her knowing. François’s secret powered the same deep outrage she felt toward C.A.S.A.’s schemes; the idea of machines surpassing humans in every field revolted her.
She would indeed have preferred a real woman, a human being with her own DNA, a hormonal cycle, viruses, a verruca, body odor. Her husband was in love with a robot, he had sex with that robot, and the idea of it made her reel. She had tried her best to view the situation with a dash of humor, to distance herself from it, but disgust and horror prevailed.
She understood more of what had gone on in her husband’s head, but that didn’t mean she was going to bow down to it. Infidelity, a word already packed with pain, seemed even weightier, bogged down with shame precisely because Amber happened to be a sex robot. It was going to be a while before she felt capable of saying, naturally, without choking, “I left my husband because he’s in love with a robot.” It was going to be a while before she’d be able to rid her mind of all the memories from the purple room.
Reading François’s letter had been heart-wrenching, but its perusal had managed to allay a burden. She felt pity, and only pity, concerning a man she had been married to for many years, and that she’d ended up not knowing as well as she’d thought. She imagined him aging with his secret in infinite solitude.
The waiter asked if she required more hot water for her tea. She declined, and checked her watch. It was eight-thirty. The small main street was full of people at present. She paid the server and left. She had to walk down a flight of stairs to get to Chemin du Port, and number 70. She reached a residence, which made her smile, but this one was an ancient one, with a date and name engraved over the big door: 1926, Guetharia. The large Art Deco–style building was white, with green shutters. Six stories tall, it sat atop a hill overlooking the sea. It
