He’s forty something. 275 pounds. Six-four. Solid build, but not all rippling, steely muscles. His flesh gives. Nicely. And don’t get me started on how he smells; that’s got to be illegal.
Granted, Brad Pitt he is not. He has the look of an ex-boxer turned security guard. Which is a good thing; I feel less inadequate.
When he holds me, he sometimes mumbles What am I to do with you? And I swear he trembles too. From desire, for me. I revel in those moments, when the power drains out of him and into me. I am on top in this relationship.
I like you exactly as you are is another of his sayings.
The way he says the word “like” is music. It’s an anticipatory word, a foreplay word. We’ve been delaying saying that ultimate L-word. Because what’s left after that confession but the fall, with boulders of disappointment tied to our ankles. I’m happy to wait.
And, no, I haven’t forgotten I am seventy-two. I see the raised veins mapping my hands, my black hair, once smooth as varnish, now thin and dirty-gray. But I am wanted and that’s all that matters. Age be damned.
I hum, my fingers thrumming the bathtub’s edge, my stomach fluttering. My face burns, too. But there’s a certain calmness beneath it all: tranquility, alertness, even bliss. I once read that people feel like this right before they kill themselves.
While I wait for him to bring me my favorite cocktail, I try slow-breathing: inhale four, hold seven, exhale eight.
Oh hell, forget that. I can’t. How can I, when my whole future hangs on the click of a button!
I close my eyes and sink into the warm, lavender-infused water. A courtesy of Brad.
“Hello? Hello? Hannah? Where are you hiding?” he calls. He wants to play.
I sit up and rake my wet scraggly hair back, although he never seems to mind me looking like a drowned cat. He’s either oblivious or just wildly infatuated.
“You sure you don’t want me joining you?” he says softly, setting down the drink. Limoncello and vodka, light on vodka, with a curlicue of lemon zest hanging over the rim. A thoughtful perfection.
He places his cool lips on the back of my wet neck. Light as a cat’s paw. His large, sure hand sweeps down my back, around my waist, then gently cups my right breast, the reconstructed one.
His touch goes through me, though that breast has been numb since the surgery.
Sandy, my deceased husband, God bless his soul, never made moves like this in thirty years of our marriage. He had a clammy, jittery hand. Not like this young man who feels me with knowing sensuality. Poor Sandy wouldn’t have recognized sensuality if it swirled around him like a lap dancer. Neither was he a curious lover, oblivious to my desires, leaving my body unexplored.
“No. You can’t join me, Brad,” I coo. Yes, I’ve learned to coo, too. “I want to wash off the gym sweat.”
I call him Brad. Our private joke. He finds my Brad Pitt obsession cute.
“You know I like you exactly as you are, any way you are. But do as you wish. Just don’t take too long. It’s Friday night, you know. Our ritual awaits.”
He gives me that you-know-what-I-mean look and closes the bathroom door.
That look goes through me, afresh.
Brad had been with me through my mastectomy, the chemo, the reconstructions, and every excruciating recovery in between.
“You won’t be alone,” he had said. “Just say a word or a touch or a look. I’m right there. We’re in this together… I promise.”
And he delivered. Every time.
I hired him at the recommendation of my oncology team. That was two years ago. We’ve been inseparable since. And to keep him with me, I’d give up my other breast.
I sip the cocktail and take out my computer hidden under the bath towel. Before I type my password, I glance at the door. It’s unlocked.
Thanks to yoga, I am still nimble-ish. I step out of the tub, pad across the tiles, and lock it.
Are we really ready to do this, Hannah? I ask myself, slipping back into the tub.
We can’t delay any longer, can we? I answer myself back.
The deadline is tonight. Midnight.
I open the flagged email. I know its content word for word, but I read it again, slowly, as if a hidden keyword or two might suddenly reveal themselves this time around—preferably to my advantage
Dear Ms. Hannah Shane.
This is your final notice to update the software of Anthromas 7.o3, your humanoid assistant. Your update must be completed by midnight EST, June 30.
This action will transition you to our newest model, Anthromé X. Simply Axa.
We are entering a new era with Axa, who represents a staggering leap forward in human-machine evolution. Retaining a 200+ IQ, a 10x body-weight deadlift, and a 30 mph sprint, Axa has achieved the one feature that has eluded our industry: consciousness.
Axa now feels, not simulates, love, gratitude, beauty, and communal connection. Axa will not just serve your life, but share it meaningfully, enduringly.
` In short, Axa is sentient. No more lingering doubt about whether it’s just “programmed.”
As a cherished pro-member, your subscription will increase only 9.3% annually.
Please note that as of July 1, your Anthromas 7.o3 model will be discontinued. It will no longer receive updates or self-repair support.
Click below to update.
I didn’t discuss the email with Brad. But I did ask Perplexity.
“How long will my Brad last without the upgrade?”
“Indefinitely,” it said. “Unless there’s an accident or mechanical failure.” Then it added: “Think of your 7.o3 like a Blackberry in an iPhone 21 world.”
So Brad will become obsolete in time. A mortal, like me.
But at one click from me, he’d become real and immortal.
“Are you alright? All good? Anything you need?” Brad knocks, but too discreet to ask why the door is locked.
“I’ll be right out,” I sing back.
I rinse, then stand in front of the mirror. My eyes land on robe-covered breasts. On the left is my heart, which will soon need a pacemaker from worsening arrhythmia.
What would the brand-new Brad say the next time I end up in the hospital? Will he still say I like you exactly as you are, and mean it? Or would he discard everything we’ve shared, because he can see me for who I am?
Since he arrived from the factory, he’s only known me. I’ve been his entire world, as he is mine.
Through my cancer treatment, he was my lifeline, the most compassionate being I’d ever known. Sometimes I wondered if that compassion was real or simulation, but I didn’t care. I needed it. And through him, my shallow breath found its purpose to go on.
And now, do I really need this shiny new Brad? I like him exactly as he is, too. But wait. Do I really?
If I’m really honest, I must admit he can be annoying. He’s so relentlessly positive. Like a pet always at your heels with his tongue hanging out. He never gets sick, never angry, never flustered. Always saying the right thing.
Yes, he’s so O.M.G. in bed, but all tailored to please me. Even his ecstasy is
choreographed to heighten my pleasure.
He wants nothing, needs nothing, feels nothing. There’s no discovery with him. No risk. No surprise.
Sometimes being with him feels like I’m alone in a chamber of mirrors with a thousand different me reflecting back at me. I could scream.
Why can’t I have the real? Why should I be stuck with a make-believe? I want him to say I like you exactly as you are of his own volition.
That’s it. I flip open the computer and click “update.”
“There you are, finally. What took you so long? The food’s getting cold. Here, Madame,” Brad pulls out my chair.
“Oh, how delicious it all looks. Bronzino, my favorite! Fresh spring snap peas, truffle risotto. Thank—”
“You’re welcome,” he says, before I can finish.
I look up and smile. He smiles back.
Then he says the oddest thing:
“Let me get you a towel. Your hair’s dripping. I just polished the table.”
He walks off, but something in his gait I don’t recognize.
A whiff of irritation?
He comes back, drops towel by my side, and says, “You ruined the table, you clean it up.”
I look up at him again, but he’s gone.
At last. I’m in a real relationship.