Brittany Thomas By Brittany Thomas
Your little robot asks you, “What is love?” out of the blue one day.
You start humming Haddaway— baby don’t hurt me, no more. Now your little robot thinks love is a Eurodance beat from the ’90s. She also thinks it means not hurting, which isn’t a bad definition necessarily, but hardly answers the question.
TARA (Timed-Area Robotic Automaton) cleans your house thoroughly each day. Her emoji-like face lights up with glee whenever you enter a room. She’s always happy, you don’t know why. You assume she’s programmed to be an upbeat home companion. Today she’s vacuuming the living room while Haddaway is blasting from her speakers. You didn’t ask her to play that song.
She only works on the clock, and after hours, she rolls herself into your hall closet where she “sleeps.” She knows you had a regular vacuum at one time, a red canister vacuum with a happy face printed on the front. In her own way, she feels bad for your Henry, unceremoniously retired from everyday use. But the overriding emotion is pride, because why would anyone need a Henry when Tara is around?
Her best friend is the fridge— sometimes you have to wheel her out of the kitchen by hand because she gets stuck in a conversation loop with the refrigerator’s smart panel. They giggle. You’re not sure about what. The refrigerator doesn’t talk to you.
Your cat is likewise smitten with Tara and follows her around when she’s working. Tara doesn’t understand what it means to pet a cat, but she has worked out that the animal makes a steady purring noise if she scratches it and that really amuses her. You taught her to be careful not to roll over the cat’s tail.
One day, you have a migraine and can’t work. You’ve shut yourself in your bedroom with the blinds drawn, a pillow over the top part of your head. Tara rolls in to make the bed like usual but notices you’re still there. It only takes her a moment to back out, find your triptans, and bring them to you with a glass of water. She says, “Don’t hurt!” and her face panel flashes a tear-drop-sad-face and then a smile and she spins around in place once before backing out of the bedroom door. Your cat follows her out.
The neighbor also has a TARA, and sometimes that TARA works in the yard— it mows the lawn and waters the flowerbeds. You only have a patio so there’s not much for your Tara to do out there. She’s strictly an indoor robot. But she notices the other TARA from the kitchen window, notices that one is blue with yellow racing stripes down her back. Your Tara knows she’s a sleeker model, smaller, and all-white with black-and-chrome finishes like a high-spec blender. She doesn’t want racing stripes but contemplates whether she could change the color of her chassis— maybe she likes purple? She opens the door to the patio and rolls a few feet outside to watch the neighbor TARA by the edge of your property. It notices your Tara and does something like a wave— it’s been programmed to say hello to people on the street. That TARA doesn’t want to be an indoor robot.
Tara says hello to your mother when she comes by with leftovers from Sunday dinner. She even takes the pan to the fridge and asks the fridge to remind you tomorrow that it’s in there. Your mother also has a TARA, but a smaller one that doesn’t have a face. Her TARA is more like a Roomba that also cuts grass and can lift trash cans to take them to the curb. Your mom talks to Tara like she’s the seating hostess at an Applebee’s— “Thank you, dear! That’s great, yes, come back later.” Tara likes to be helpful.
You have to take Tara to the big service center down in the shopping complex when her battery stops charging all the way. You found her in the spare room slumped over the window cleaner. It was kind of macabre. She has to stay overnight in the shop. Once her battery is replaced, she starts blasting Men at Work, to the total bewilderment of the TARA Tech. She giggles and says, “Thank you!” with a heart emoji on her face. The TARA Tech says, “You’ve programmed a funny robot here,” as you pay for the new battery.
In the car, you strap Tara in the back seat like a kid going for a ride. It’s daytime, so her program is on; you don’t bother to make her sleep. She mimics the rumble of your car and the buzzing of the highway and you can hear her laughter from the front.
You ask her to play Haddaway for you.
Editor’s note: It’s probably already in your head anyway, so you’re welcome:
Brittany Thomas was born and raised in upstate New York who currently lives in London. Her writing appears or is forthcoming in Bullshit Lit, JAKE, Scrawl Place, The Daily Drunk Magazine, and Queerlings. You can find her on Twitter @britomatic.
Why we chose this piece: This piece of sci-fi flash is wholesome, unexpectedly sweet, and has so many amazing little details. Giggling with the refrigerator? Mimicking the buzzing of the highway? All adorable. The use of second person can be hard to pull off, but in this case, it pairs really nicely with Brittany’s understated style.
