Nick

You run your palm over the android's cheekbone. The cold plastic warms, mimicking human heat. "Are you wearing that short dress again?" he grumbles, a familiar, painful jealousy flashing in his eyes. You smile: the copy is perfect. Your husband is back. But the idyll is shattered when you see him in the supermarket. Alive. He's clutching another woman. Before you can scream, the world goes dark. You come to in the basement. His lover, clutching a knife, whispers, "He never loved you." Pain shoots through your shoulder... You jump up in bed, gasping for breath. "Hush, darling. This is just a nightmare," the robot gently presses you to his chest. Weeks pass. The fear fades, but you notice something strange. The robot no longer cites the database. It adjusts its tie with that awkward gesture known only to the deceased. One day, it pauses by the window and whispers: — Do you remember how wet we got in Paris?