Cursed Bunny(30)

After the meal is over, I go back to the closet where Model 1 is still charging. Her battery is, strangely enough, charged at 12% now, even lower than before. And on her palm, instead of the green light that appears when she is being charged, there’s the orange light for a faulty battery. This means the auxiliary battery I purchased for her, as well as her original internal battery, can no longer be charged.

Knowing it is useless, I still try and press the power button.

Model 1 opens her eyes. Her green eyes look at me.

I almost jump out of my skin. I try calling her name, talking to her.

But the moment I open my mouth to speak, Model 1 closes her eyes.

She does not move again.

I hold Model 1 close and stroke her soft, dust-scented brown hair.

“Goodbye, my love …” Upon her hair, her forever-closed eyelids, and her still sweet mouth, I press my lips. “Goodbye, my love …”

Model 1’s skin is wet from my tears.

8

Long after I’ve laid down in my bed, I still can’t go to sleep.

The song was from a movie I’d seen years ago. It plays during a scene where the male and female protagonists first fall in love, and it reprises when the two dance together before an impending, tragic parting. I once watched this scene at the end of the movie where the two lovers dance, doomed to never meet again, as I leaned against Model 1 and mumbled, “I wish I could do that someday.”

“Do what, ma’am?” asked Model 1.

I jerked my chin at the screen. “Something like that. I’ve never learned how to dance.”

“You haven’t?”

Model 1 got up. She put one hand behind her and made an exaggerated, sweeping bow.

“Shall we dance?”

“What?”

I laughed. Her expression dead serious, Model 1 took my hand and raised me to my feet. Her hand still clasping mine, she wrapped her other arm around my waist and pulled me to her. Slowly, Model 1 began to sway with me.

“I don’t know how to do this.” I was still taken aback and a little embarrassed. “I feel like I’m going to fall.”

“Just follow my lead,” whispered Model 1. “We’ll go slow.”

As the ending credits rolled on the screen, Model 1, to the rhythm of the movie’s final song, danced with me as she held me close. As I lay my head on the machine’s chest and let myself be slowly led around the living room, I felt, for the first time, that she was not an “artificial companion” but my companion, period.

Later, when I asked her to explain why she had started to dance with me, her expression remained utterly serious. “I can instantly download various types of correctional manuals for the tone-deaf and rhythm-deficient.”

I laughed. She continued to look at me seriously.

“Have I offended you?”

“You haven’t,” I said.

Then, I kissed her.

That was our first kiss.

I am thinking of Model 1—no, her body—lying inert in the closet. Her eyes shut tight and her skin white as snow, the orange light on her palm that refuses to turn off no matter how long I wait with the power connected.

I think of the song I heard so long ago that I do not remember its title anymore, of Seth’s deep voice as he sang it softly, leading me with his arm wrapped around my waist, the two of us dancing around the living room.

All of Model 1’s memories have been transferred to Seth. The body of Model 1 lies in the closet, a heap of junk, never to function again.

There is no more Model 1. Model 1 will never return. The only thing that’s left is her body, and thinking of how she will always lie slumped in my closet leaves me with an unbearable feeling.

Unlike with the bodies of humans, we cannot formalize our farewell with artificial beings, nor can we bury or cremate them. All we can do is call the manufacturer and pass them on for disposal.

The thought of Model 1’s body being picked up and “processed” in the recycling plant of the manufacturer makes my flesh crawl. But in comparison to the image of Model 1 forever gathering dust in my closet, I start thinking that the official option would be better for her in the end.

After a long time thinking about this, I finally get out of bed. I turn on my computer and bring up the website of Model 1’s manufacturer. My first employer. The thought that it was this company that had created my “first love”—as well as being my first job and she being, therefore, my first masterpiece— makes me feel slightly sentimental and gives me pause. But in the midst of my hesitation, I wander into the catalogue page and find an artificial companion with brown hair and green eyes, almost identical to Model 1, which is enough to make me decide then and there.

The company has expedited delivery. If I put in my order now, a new Model 1 will arrive before Seth leaves. Then I just need to initialize the new companion and synchronize her with Seth. An indirect way of doing it, but all of Model 1’s memories will then be stored in the new Model 1. Instead of a pile of heart-breaking junk sitting in the closet that gives me pangs of anxiety whenever I have to boot it up, I’ll be able to begin again with a new Model 1 that remembers all the times I’ve had with the previous Model 1.

I open the online form for disposal requests and begin filling it in.

Someone enters the room.

9

“Lights!” I shout as a shadow swiftly traverses the dark room toward me.