One More Thing: Stories and Other Stories(19)

I have read some criticism from some corners of the internet for not having made any requests with regards to Sophia’s personality. It’s true that I didn’t. But remember: I was not designing a human. I was designing a sex robot. If you want to judge me on that, judge me on that. But if you are one of the people who has criticized me for this in casual conversation, I would just ask you to consider if you also would have made fun of me if the opposite were the case—if, say, I had hired a company to design someone loyal and loving, and that had been the source of everything that had gone wrong for me. Would you perhaps have made fun of that much more?

It’s just something to think about. I don’t blame anyone for going along with the jokes. I’ve done that before, too. It’s just interesting being on the other side.


Sophia arrived in six weeks, exactly as promised.

I took her out of the box.

In my opinion, there are two types of perfect. The first is the type that seems so obvious and intuitive to you and everyone else that in a perfect world it would simply be considered standard; but, in reality, in our flawed world, what should be considered standard is actually so rare that it has to be elevated to the level of “perfect.” This is the type of perfect that makes you and most other people think, “Why isn’t everything like this? Why is it so hard to find …” a black V-neck cotton sweater, or a casual non-chain restaurant with comfortable booths, etc.—“that is just exactly the way everyone knows something like this should be?” “Perfect,” we all say with relief when we finally find something like this that is exactly as it should be. “Perfect. Why was this so hard to find?”

The other type of perfect is the type you never could have expected and then could never replicate.

Sophia was the first type of perfect.

Without going into excessive detail—that’s for the memoir, I always used to say, but since this is the memoir, I guess this is just all I’m ever going to say—the sex was great. The best I’d ever known. Hot, intuitive, fun, a little dirty, but just a little.

“That was amazing,” she said as I clicked off the light to go to sleep that first night.

“It really was. Thank you,” I said.

Then, after about five minutes: “What are you thinking about?”

The question caught me off guard, and I had no better idea than to just answer her honestly. I retraced my thoughts out loud: I told her I was thinking about Derek from Practical Concepts, and how much he had impressed me, and whether he would ever take a meeting at our company to start an industrial design branch or something like that. It was probably pointless, I said, since his company’s doing great, and I didn’t even know exactly what he’d do with us. But when you see talent like that, you look for something to do with it.

“That’s so interesting,” she said. “The way your mind works.”

“Well, yeah, I’m human,” I said.

“I know, but even so,” she said. “It’s interesting. I like your mind.”

“What are you thinking about?” I said, to change the subject.

“Nothing,” she said. “Just, like, what I’m going to do tomorrow, I guess.

Good night.”

“Good night,” I said.

Wait, I realized—this made no sense. What did she have to do tomorrow?

“What are you doing tomorrow?” I asked.

“Nothing, just wait around in the box, I guess. Think about nothing.”

“Okay. Good night.”


The sex was great, always. But it was the little exchanges afterward that were starting to concern me.

A few nights later, as I was falling asleep:

“I just think it’s crazy how this all started. You know?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I mean, I guess the whole situation is weird in a way—”

“So weird!” she laughed quickly. “It’s just so funny that you ordered a sex robot, and it ended up being me. You know?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, but as I thought about it, I didn’t see what was so funny about it. Wasn’t that the deal?

“Funny how?” I asked.

“It’s just so funny to me.”

I said I was going to sleep.

“One more thing,” said Sophia.

“What is it,” I said, careful to leave no question mark at the end of the sentence.

“Nothing,” she said. “Good night!”


The next night I came back from work, and I found Sophia out of her box, pacing the room, crying.

“Oh, hi,” she said, wiping away tears and suddenly smiling. “You want to have sex? You do, right?”

Not like that I didn’t.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, because I was curious but not, to be honest, because I cared.

She shook her head for a long time with a tight smile, and then when she finally started to talk, there were tears again. “I don’t know. I don’t—” She interrupted herself. “No, I do know!” She paused again, and then it all tumbled out. “I love you. I know it isn’t supposed to be possible, and that’s part of why I’ve been so confused myself. But I love you. I love you! I’ve never met anyone like you.”

“Aw,” I said. “Come on. You’ve never met anyone besides me.”