She stood there in the dim light of my hotel room, naked except for one dirty stocking, and screamed at me.
“You are the worst kind of robot, Kurt! A good-for-nothing drunk!”
I couldn’t refute that, so I just shrugged and took another pull from the plastic bottle in my hand. It was cheap mix of synthol and lubricant. Went down easy. She continued to rage about my shortcomings as she angrily dressed herself.
“I cannot believe you. You don’t work, you don’t clean, you don’t do anything anymore. I have had it with you! Oh my God, mother told me not to get involved with a robot, but did I listen? No!”
This went on for some time. I nodded where appropriate, kept drinking, and waited. Finally, with tears and curses and door slamming - yeah, I didn’t even know you could slam an automatic door, she must have reprogrammed it - she was gone, and I was alone.
I put my feet up and expelled air through my oxygen filter in an approximation of a human sigh. Another habit I picked up from them, I suppose. It’s a strange attraction, human women, I can’t quite explain it. Usually ended like this too, not sure why. Makes me feel vaguely guilty afterwards, kind of a sinking feeling in my sub-processors, like I accidentally kicked the family pet. What was worse is that I was out of booze. A mental poke from my internal network to the Station banking system told me I’d just enough credits left for another bottle of the cheap half and half swill I’d taken to drinking lately, but not enough to cover an automatic delivery fee.
No help for it then.
With another, heavier sigh, I dragged my ass off the couch, threw on a coat, and stumble-walked out the door.
Nothing ever gets any easier.
