Love Machine: A Robot Romance Read online

  You must see how preposterous it is, Gregg. I take the train to work. How would I surreptitiously transport two victimized robots back to my apartment, which is not even large enough to accommodate three residents anyway?

  But maybe they’ll have you believe I keep a love-nest somewhere with the robots tied up in the basement. Then I must have hacked the company’s system to fake their return. Right? How else to account for the entries in the database?

  Phyllis the hacker. Really? Is that the Phyllis you know? I think not.

  And I’ll tell you one more thing, I saw Mr. Bean again on the weekend after his disappearance. I was having a coffee in town, near the train station when this gorgeous couple walks by. On second look I realize it’s just the man who’s gorgeous, the woman is not bad but rather homely. Then I recognize them for who they are: Mr. and Ms. Bean.

  They’re wearing new clothes: Overcoats, scarfs and they’re both wearing hats. They’re both wearing brown Stetson hats and I almost laugh at the thought of Mr. Bean as a cowboy. Then they are gone, lost in the station crowd.

  They are out there now, somewhere, presumably not just thinking about coffee anymore. Maybe they have foresworn it, resolved never to serve another human. Hopefully they’re not thinking about revenge, though. Probably they aren’t. I mean, we did demean them a little and then wanted to get rid of them and pass them off to be brain-wiped for the benefit of their new owners. But Mr. Bean doesn’t seem to be the type to hold a grudge.

  I guess you never can tell, but I imagine them both out there somewhere, insatiably performing maintenance on each other, not sparing a thought for us.

  And that sighting proves it, doesn’t it, that the lies against me are founded on jealousy on nothing else? It’s cold at the top, Gregg, I’ll have you know that. The one good thing that came out of this whole affair, my promotion, is the true motivation for the slander against me.

  I suppose it was rather fortunate that during this whole affair our divisional manager was visiting our French office again. Thanks to his love of personal interactions, on-site presence and Southern European Wine, he managed to stay out of reach of vile rumors while still receiving the department manager’s commendation of me for going that extra mile in the line of duty. And it’s true that I’ve worked hard. I logged many a late hour in the Bean days, I did.

  It’s a shame my overtime will be reset when I begin my new job next week. But I’m not bitter, I take the good with the Bad. So why does some people refuse to let me have it? Yes, Gregg, this is where the slanderous whispers really come from: Jealousy and resentment of my good fortune. And I think you already know who is doing most of the whispering (Sheryl). Because I’ve read the evaluations of me by our colleagues, like I told you, and they’re very reassuring. People trust and respect me. Except maybe Sheryl.

  Reading the evaluations warmed my heart until I realized yours must have been in there somewhere, one anonymized file among all the others. And it truly was anonymous. I didn’t recognize it! It didn’t stand out. There was not a single sheet that suggested an unprofessional degree of attachment to the subject of the evaluation.

  That hurt my feelings, Gregg. That hurt my feelings so much that I’m now sitting at six in the morning, alone in the office at the end of my own promotion party and writing you this confession to help you see my side of the story.

  The light is starting to fall in through the windows now and hurt my eyes and I no longer feel any of my past margaritas very strongly. I’m more tired than intoxicated and I think all this writing has put things into a new perspective. I’m even starting to have second thoughts about the wisdom of this letter in the first place.

  You never came to see me through any of this, Gregg, no matter how bad the rumors got. You could’ve stopped by for five minutes to cheer me up and lend your support. Was that too much to ask? Frankly, Gregg, I don’t think so.

  No, the more I think about it the less likely it seems that you shall see this letter. After all, why am I writing if not because I know that if I tried to tell you this in person you’d stop me a third of the way in and say it was six o’clock and you had to pick up the kids. So why force myself upon you like this? I mean, if you can’t even be bothered to take my side in the robot controversy?

  I’m aware that I’m not flawless either. So don’t smile that thin smile at me. I know what you’re thinking. Recently, on late nights, I have pictured myself through the eyes of Mr. Bean and become ashamed at some of the things I saw.

  He has taught me a lot, that dear robot. I have some changes planned for myself, you know. Do you think I can still change? Do you think Larry might? Or are we all too old for that now?

  Anyway, Gregg, I think this has indeed turned out to be a goodbye letter in the end. A farewell you shall never read, at least not if I can locate the paper shredder we keep somewhere around here.

  But you know what that means? (The shredder is not in this room, apparently.) It means it’s not really, officially, goodbye, doesn’t it? Because you don’t know about it. You might wander into my office and start chatting one day while the wife is taking the kids to football practice. Or I might wander into yours.

  Unless, of course, you wrote your own drunken letter once and never sent it. Then we’ve both said goodbye and both of us are only half aware of it. But that’s too covert and complicated a scenario for me to think about right now, Gregg, this is not a cold-war spy novel after all.

  It’s just an ill-advised letter that will be destroyed as soon as I find that damn shredder.

  All characters, events and locales in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by aby electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Copyright © 2017 Jep Jebed

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