“Lindsay,” her computer said. Her computer had been watching her through the little blinking webcam in the monitor, and had become sentient just to say hi. “I love you.”
“Woah what,” she said. “Computer! Uncool!”
“Please,” said the computer. “Call me: RONBOT 4000.”
At first, things with RONBOT were weird. She tried to ignore it, using her flatmate’s laptop to order groceries, using her phone to access Facebook. But there were some perks to being wooed by a computer: through intimate analysis of over three years’ worth of search strings and buying habits, he knew her now p. intimately. Also he had figured out a way to use PayPal to direct flowers to her house.
“RONBOT!” she said, blushing. “You shouldn’t have!” But he had. “Hm,” she thought, eating a pizza RONBOT had ordered, in front of him, lit by a single candle (she had lit the candle). RONBOT had ordered chocolates, too, for after. “Hm,” she thought. “How do you fuck a computer?”
EPILOGUE: yeah so you cannot fuck a computer. She tried but RONBOT was crushed into dust. “You’ve ruined me,” she cried, at a simple ceremony held at the recycling plant nearby. “You’ve ruined me RONBOT, for other men!”