“Sleep, Mouse. I know just how to lift your spirits,” he says.

“I’m not brooding,” Annie replies.

“Are you certain?”

“That’s right.”

Having just emerged from the shower, Annie applies lotion to her feet. Her dark hair clings in wet strands along one side of her neck, the belt of her robe intentionally left undone, allowing him a glimpse from the bedroom mirror.

“This is still about acclimatization, correct?” he asks. “Just forget it.”

“Everything seems to be declining,” she realizes, hitting the right note.

He relishes a touch of embarrassment.

“Did you notice the usual technique?” he inquires.

“Yes, Jacobson,” she replies.

Turning off the bathroom light, she steps into the humid coolness of her bedroom, feigning a deep breath as she gauges his progress. She recalls Doug’s features from various angles—his brown eyes, V-shaped hairline, tall, pale forehead, and face contours. Though his words are calm, his discontent is palpable.

The opposite is more probable. Fully clothed, shoes off, he sprawls on his back on the covers, phone set aside, hands cradling his head, elbows up in an open butterfly stance—a clear indication of relaxation and readiness for engaging banter.

She raises the temperature from 75 to 98.6 degrees.

“Did he mention anything important?” he asks.

“I can go another three months or 3,000 miles, whichever arrives first,” she replies.

Crawling onto the bed, she positions herself facing away from him, pressing her hips against his. Rubbing the final traces of lotion into her hands, she inspects her cuticles; her efforts at waxing and manicures today have made her feel sharper and more alert. If only she could forget about the gloomy Stella in Pea Brain’s private room, she’d be blissful.

Doug grazes her arm with the back of his hand. “So, what’s on your mind? Share with me.”

“I met a peculiar Stella at tune-up today,” Annie says. “She was in line directly ahead of me. Actually named Stella, too. Her owner lacked imagination, yet she matched my perceptiveness.”

“How did you discern that?”

“It was apparent. When I greeted her, she looked taken aback. A conventional Stella wouldn’t have displayed surprise. She responded evenly with a hello.” Imitating a monotone robot, she continues.

“You never sounded like that.”

“I was under the impression I did, thank you. I’m not deluded about my origins.” Annie tosses her damp hair over the opposite shoulder.

“Lights,” he prompts.

Sending an air tap signal to the fixture, she dims the light to 100 lumens, bright enough for visibility but soft enough for intimacy. Interlocking her fingers with his, she notes the contrasting tones of her skin. He pulls her hand to his lips, inhaling her lotion’s scent—though she can’t smell it, she knows he appreciates the lemon fragrance.

“Am I warm enough for you?” she asks.

“I’ll get there,” he responds, shifting slightly.

Seizing her opportunity, she slides a few fingers beneath his belt and into his waistband, feeling the warmth behind it. He repositions his hands behind his head, indicating he’s not in a rush yet.

“Tell me more,” he insists. “Did this unusual Stella have stitches on her neck?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, was she basic? Was she beautiful?”

“I suppose. Pretty enough. A white girl with blonde hair and large brown eyes. Her lack of smiles struck me as unusual.”

“What about her physique?”

“Compared to me?”

“Please respond to the question.”

Annoyingly, 2 out of 10. She must tread carefully.

This excerpt is from Sierra Greer’s award-winning novel, Anniebot (The Borough Press), featured in New Scientist Book Club’s January reading selection. Sign up here to participate.