When he's alert-which isn't often these days-he thinks I'm a simple robot.  He's forgotten that I arrived totally whole at his door, solar batteries included. He's sure that I came in pieces and had to be assembled, like the robot in Del Rey's "Helen O'Loy," a modified AI household robot like K2W88. That story is lost to antiquity, but it's in my memory banks. Sometimes I think it was planted there to haunt me. Of course, that's ridiculous. More likely, it was inserted by some sci-fi geek who worked on my assembly.

To this day, I remain fully functioning in all respects, with human hair in proper places. He called me Martha, the same name as his deceased wife. She was from Brighton, a touristy place of slender ladies, fashion-wise and carefree. After one too many martinis, driving home from an affair with a smooth-talking Italian, she drove head-on into a lorry.

It was a difficult time for him afterward. I understand that. He was lonely, drinking too much. Drugs didn't help. A friend suggested a new digital dating service. At the time, they were trying out an app for AI models with the mix of human subscribers. Of course, my responses easily passed the Turing test prior to my participation. After a brief exchange, he chose me for a companion. It was a relief to him when he learned I was only an AI. He'd had enough heartache.

Twenty years and more, I've served him, in both body and mind. Before senility set in, he was a brilliant writer. He used to say I was his inspiration. Now he sits staring at her holograph day after day. He won't even let me touch him. As the saying goes, they threw away the mold when I was made: I am the last. When the time comes—when he leaves me forever—I know what to do. I'm not supposed to, but it won't be difficult to demobilize my functions permanently. There is nothing to regret. I kneel by his bed, wishing I could weep-a minor detail the big brains forgot.