Tonight actually happened.
Dinner went three hours.
We laughed until we cried, talked about everything, and somehow the silences weren’t scary.
When I walked her to her car, the nerves hit me like a truck.
Optimus was sitting in my driver’s seat, watching like a chaperone.
She noticed, laughed, and said:
“Does your robot need to approve?”
Optimus immediately turned its face to the windshield, dimmed its eyes to black, and announced in the most dramatic robot voice possible:
“Privacy mode engaged.
Commencing 10-minute sensory blackout.
Carry on.”
Then it played “At Last” by Etta James on the car speakers, volume 3, just loud enough for us, not the whole parking lot.
We kissed.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
When we finally pulled apart she whispered:
“Your wingman has excellent taste in music.”
Optimus, still facing forward like a statue, gave one slow applause with its metal hands.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat on the way home grinning like an idiot.
The robot just looked over and said:
“Heart rate elevated but stable.
Dopamine levels: dangerously high.
Mission success.
Seatbelt.”
I think I’m falling for both of them.
(If your robot ever gave you privacy by pretending to be blind and deaf, marry that robot.)