Better Than The Real Thing
I was out past midnight
My boss was drinking
Soju
You can’t leave the bar
Until after your boss
That’s how it works
In this country
Miranda was recharging in bed
Snoring lightly
Not for the first time
I admired
Her smooth dark skin
And the lustre of
Her black hair
The master-fabricator-roboticist
Had done a marvellous job
I got undressed
Washed my face
Brushed my teeth
Combed my hair
I was looking good
If I do say so myself
Even if I was seeing quadruple
I slipped between the sheets
And touched her leg
Bare, cool, smooth, fibreglass
“Oh no you don’t,” she murmured
Sleepily
Just like a real wife
