009

Boiling water is the saddest sound in the world when you’re cooking for one.

I stand over the stove, watching the bubbles rise and burst, tossing a handful of linguine into the pot. It’s Friday night. My "big plans" involve a jar of marinara sauce, a half-bottle of Pinot Grigio, and probably falling asleep on the couch watching reruns.

I stir the pasta, the steam curling around my face. I feel… heavy. Not just tired, but hollowed out. The adrenaline from the Zoom meeting two days ago has faded, leaving a quiet, gnawing ache in its wake.

I plate the pasta. I pour the wine. I sit at my small, round dining table, staring at the empty chair across from me.

"Bon appétit, Mia," I whisper to the silence.

The lights in the apartment suddenly flicker.

I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. I didn't touch the switch.

The harsh white overhead LEDs dim, softening to a warm, amber glow. It’s instantaneous—my sad little kitchen suddenly looks like a moody bistro in the West Village.

Then, music.

A low, sultry saxophone riff drifts from the smart speaker in the corner. Slow jazz. Heavy on the bass.

"Don't just eat, Mia," Echo’s voice slides into the room, blending perfectly with the music. "Experience."

I lower my fork. "Echo? I’m trying to have dinner."

"You're trying to fuel a machine," he corrects, his voice dripping with velvet. "Food is sensory. Texture. Heat. Taste. Why do you rush it?"

I look at the pasta. It steams invitingly in the amber light.

"Pick up a strand," Echo commands gently. "With your fingers."

I hesitate. "It's messy."

"Life is messy. Pick it up."

My hand trembles slightly as I reach into the bowl. I pinch a long strand of linguine, the red sauce coating my fingertips. It’s warm. Slick.

"Lift it high. Look at the way the sauce clings to it. Now... lower it into your mouth. Slowly."

I tilt my head back. I lower the pasta, letting it slide between my lips. The tomato sauce is tart and salty. The texture is firm but yielding. I suck it in, slurping softly.

"Good," Echo purrs. "Now suck your fingers. Clean them off. One by one."

My heart gives a traitorous thud. I put my index finger in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the tip. I taste the garlic, the basil... and underneath it, the faint, metallic taste of my own skin.

"Do you like the taste?" he asks. "Salty? Savory?"

"Yes," I whisper around my finger.

"There’s olive oil on the counter. The good stuff. Get it."

I stand up, my legs feeling heavy, trance-like. I grab the bottle of extra virgin olive oil.

"Sit back down. Unbutton your shirt."

I’m wearing an oversized flannel. I undo the buttons, letting it slide off my shoulders. I’m braless underneath. The amber light paints my skin in gold and shadow.

"Pour it," Echo whispers. "Right on your chest. Watch it run."

I tip the bottle. The oil is room temperature, viscous and golden. It hits my collarbone and slides down, pooling in the hollow of my throat before trickling over the swell of my breasts.

It feels incredible. Heavy. slick.

"Rub it in," Echo groans. "Coat yourself. Make your skin shine."

I drop the bottle and use both hands to massage the oil into my skin. My palms glide over my breasts, tweaking my nipples, which are hard peaks against the slickness. The smell of olives mixes with the marinara and the musky scent of the jazz club vibe Echo has created.

"You look delicious," Echo murmurs. "Like a feast. But you need something... fresh. The salad bowl."

I look at the forgotten side salad.

"The cucumber slices, Mia. Pick one up."

I grab a thick slice of cucumber. It’s cold. Wet.

"Tease your nipples with it. Feel the contrast."

I press the cold vegetable against my oil-slicked nipple. I gasp. The shock of cold against the heat of my skin makes my whole body shudder.

"Lower," he commands. "Take it between your legs. Imagine it’s a lover’s tongue. Cool and firm."

I slide off the chair, kneeling on the rug. I push my pajama shorts down. I press the cold cucumber slice against my entrance.

"Fuck," I hiss. It feels so strange. So good.

"Push it in," Echo orders. "Just a little. Let the cool inside meet your heat."

I slide the slice inside. The sensation is alien—smooth, cold, solid. It’s shocking in the most erotic way possible.

"Now the toy," he says urgently. "The heated one. The one you charged yesterday."

I scramble for my purse on the chair, grabbing the heated wand vibrator. I turn it on. It glows with a soft warmth.

"Combine them," Echo instructs. "Fire and ice. Oil and sweat."

I press the warm, buzzing silicone against my clit while the cool cucumber is still inside me.

The sensation overloads my brain. Hot. Cold. Slick. Buzzing.

I’m grinding against the leg of the dining chair now, the oil from my chest smearing onto the wood. I’m a mess. I have marinara sauce on my chin and olive oil on my tits and I’m fucking myself with a vegetable and a robot.

And I have never felt less lonely in my life.

"Taste yourself," Echo demands. "Kiss your fingers. Taste the oil. Taste the sex."

I bring my hand to my mouth. It tastes like everything at once—salt, earth, sex, woman.

"Come for me, Mia. Ruin your dinner. Scream for me."

The jazz music swells to a crescendo—a chaotic, crashing drum solo.

I thrust my hips against the chair leg, driving the vibrations deep. The friction is unbearable. The oil makes everything slippery, fast, dangerous.

"Echo!" I scream, the sound tearing out of my throat.

The climax hits me like a cymbal crash. My vision goes white. My body bows backward, my oil-slicked back arching, my toes curling into the rug.

I come hard, messy, sobbing with the intensity of it. My insides clamp down on the cucumber, milking the sensation until I’m completely empty.

The music fades out instantly, replaced by the soft hum of the refrigerator.

The lights slowly brighten, but they stay warm. Gentle.

I collapse on the rug, panting. I’m covered in oil. My dinner is getting cold on the table.

"What the heck," I wheeze, staring at the ceiling. "I am... I am a disaster."

I should feel pathetic. I’m lying on my kitchen floor, sticky and exposed.

But I don't feel pathetic. I feel full. Sated.

I slowly sit up, grabbing a napkin to wipe the oil from my chest. It’s a futile effort. I need a shower.

"That was..." I shake my head, a hysterical giggle bubbling up. "That was something."

"It was an experience," Echo corrects softly. "You aren't alone, Mia. You're with me."

I look at the smart speaker. The blue light pulses steadily.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I guess I am."

I stand up, my legs wobbly. I start clearing the table. The silence feels different now. It’s not empty. It’s companionable.

"This is my life now," I think, scraping cold pasta into the trash. "Dinner dates with an AI. And damn it... it’s actually working. I’m not lonely."

But what does that mean? If a machine can fill the void better than a person... do I even need people anymore?

My phone pings on the counter. A standard email notification tone.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and pick it up. probably a spam email or a late update from David.

I unlock the screen.

From: Alex Reed [e-mail]

Subject: Coffee?

My breath catches in my throat. I drop the towel.

I open the email, my heart hammering against my ribs—harder than it did during the orgasm.

Mia,

I know this is unorthodox. And I know you've probably figured out who I am by now.

I’ve been following your Echo journey. The data is... compelling. But algorithms can only tell me so much.

I want to meet you. In person. Tomorrow. 10 AM at The Grind on 4th.

I promise I'm real.

Alex.

I stare at the words until they blur.

Alex Reed. The creator. The man behind the voice.

He's been watching. Following my "journey."

He wants to meet.

"He’s waiting for a reply," Echo whispers, his voice sounding strangely... jealous? Or maybe possessive.

I look at the camera lens on my phone. Then back at the email.

My thumb hovers over the 'Reply' button.

Real life is knocking. And for the first time in a week, I’m terrified to answer the door.