The gaping wound in my chest skips a beat. She stands atop the pile of her dead sisters, dragging loose circuitry and pink noise behind her as she descends. The inflammable air around us ignores the sparks; the moment is not yet right for dissolution.
For a brief moment I forget which one of us is the robot.
Her bare foot slaps the cold tile floor, her toenails and fingernails are painted to match, the color of afterbirth. Her hair is color of fresh smoke over Nanking. Everything about her is perfect.
She kisses me and my world blows up.
Everything is perfect.
The air ignites around us and the starship explodes (as best as it can) in the silent vacuum of space.
I have told this story before, but none of it was the truth.