She opened the door, looked at him standing there on her step, small and pathetic, a full foot shorter than she was. Golden hair and luminescent green eyes. “Billy?” she queried in a dry, brittle voice.

“Sara, please. Let me say this. I’ve worked with you downtown for a year. I’ve watched you come in every day, watched you leave—”

“Billy—”

“Please. Let me finish. I love you. I love your smell. I love your voice. I love the way your eyes shine. Please,” he said, and then he held out the flowers and said, “These are for you.”

Her face betrayed nothing, not a hint of emotion as she looked down on him. “Billy,” she said, “I’m sorry, I don’t… Billy, you’re a machine. A robot. Jesus Christ. This is the last thing—” The door was closed in his face.

Billy’s electric eyes didn’t blink and his plastic face didn’t change. No, he stood there for a moment and processed the rejection. When he’d finished, he put the flowers in his chassis compartment and left the way he came.