I curse loudly. There is blood in my mouth; it tastes like metal.

I think of her.

I imagine her lips, her cold chrome hands. Her pale skin, barely human.

Once, I think, she wanted me. Her mechanic eyes would follow me in a room, pleading but not knowing why. I played on that, cruelly. My hand would linger on her shoulder for too long. I somtimes felt guilt over her confusion.

Now she paints her lips, and her skin. In seeking indiviuality, she loses her own.

Now, only when I taste my own blood, I am reminded of her.