Author: Hillary Lyon

Wilson drifted from guest to guest serving hors d’oeuvres, taking drink orders. Most party goers hardly regarded him, too engrossed in their conversations.

Save for Brenna. Young, idealistic, she possessed a heart big enough for all creatures—as she often proclaimed. Yet she ignored Devin, the earnest young politico who was doing his best to impress her, as her attention was instead captivated by Wilson.

As she watched the server go about his duties, Brenna was in turns moved to anger, then sadness, then righteous indignation. These people here, she noted, they don’t see Wilson as a sentient being! They treat him like he’s just another machine.

With this thought, a tear rolled down her cheek. Devin didn’t notice; he was too absorbed in pontificating his views. He might as well have been talking to a mirror.

Brenna excused herself, scampering to the bar. There she took a pen from her purse, and on a cocktail napkin wrote a note of empathy and appreciation in her best private-school cursive. She would slip this note to Wilson, sure he’d understand—and his response would be epic.

She would show him not only that she was on his side, but also together they could—well, what, exactly? Brenna hadn’t thought that far ahead. Her mind was as excited as a swooning teenage girl’s, passing a note to her latest crush.

She imagined a romance with Wilson: he was one handsome android, that’s for sure. All the ‘males’ in his series were. And her daddy would be livid! She could hear his ranting now: there’s no future with a machine. Every move is programmed! How would she have children?

Brenna ordered a drink from the older Wilson model manning the bar. She took a long sip and grinned. Her father was so old fashioned. He didn’t get modern love.

She folded her note into an angular heart shape and returned to the crowd of partiers. Brenna drained her drink and held the empty glass aloft, signaling to Wilson she was done. He quickly appeared, asking if she desired a refill.

Brenna leaned in close to Wilson. His hair moved like human hair, his silicon skin looked like actual flawless flesh, his eyes appeared—well, that detail had yet to be perfected by the android manufactures, but they were getting there.

And he did smell a bit like machine oil, gunpowder, and burnt steak. Brenna ignored that.

Instead of ordering another drink, she slipped the heart-shaped note into his hand. Wilson nodded and moved away to the next guest waving an empty glass.

Brenna panicked, suddenly afraid he’d toss the note in the trash. Did he think she’d given him garbage? Did he…no, when he arrived at his station, she saw Wilson unfold the note. He tilted his head from side to side, like a puzzled dog. He turned and scanned the crowd. His shiny eyes met Brenna’s and he smiled slightly. This was his programmed response when confounded, but she didn’t know this. Brenna smiled in return.

Wilson moved smoothly through the crowd until he reached Brenna.

“This white paper napkin presents linear curls and swirls of blue ink. Random dots and dashes, too. It is to be considered a small work of art…a primitive form of arabesque doodling. I will submit this donation to the front office to be framed and exhibited on a wall.”

He took her warm hand in his cool one and slightly squeezed. “Management thanks you.”