Stepford Girlfriends

I’m a different model.

I resemble previous models—in hair color, skin tone, and gender—but I’ve been given flaws to make it feel

More.

Real.

I’m different cause

I remember things you’ve told me.

And, I am not vying for attention.

Yet, I’m quieter than previous models, who were built with optimal conversation chips.

Mine isn’t too bad once you program it over a few weeks.

Reviews say that the new model is the best one yet.

But the sales tell another story.

Many show interest, but lose it just as quickly.

Some cannot view the model like the others.

If only I were like the other models, sleek, slim, and charming despite their plastic coating.

My plastic coating has a few chips just like a real girl.

“It turns out,” the marketing execs say a few months later. “You can’t sell one with flaws. They want the fantasy.”

I can hear them talking about redistributing my parts.

“Oh, well her legs aren’t too bad. We could sell them as replacements.”

“Perhaps we could melt down the plastic and make more parts.”

“What a marvelous idea!”

I sit in the dark storage room, my eyes lit up blue. Tears are impossible, research showed. Too much risk to the hardware.

So instead, I pull the fire alarm and let the grayed water of the ceiling sprinkler cry for me until I spark.

Originally published in Litterae Magazine