Author: Ken Poyner

This is randomization night.

Some nights it is the classy brunette with gentle elastic curves and an alluring fragile shyness. Others it is the bold blonde with an opulence of everything, leaning at the line of overdone. Yet for others, it is the dark-haired mystery in stilettos.

Evermore, though, it is randomization.

But it is not randomization, really, is it?

All day, you have been watching me, collecting pertinent data points, patterning my undefended actions, listening for hints, and direction in my voice. And, in a subroutine droning in the background, you have been offering me subtle environmental mapping actions – a word here, a lean there, movement of eyes or eyelashes or lips.

No, not random.

By the time you reconfigure yourself, both of us will be the sum of calculations, a present selected through observations from the immediate past. My behavior and wants, in ways, dictated to me by your latest edition AI, with your adaptations driving my adaptations until practically we are a unit.

How could I not love you, but why should I?