text: *You yearned to understand who a person truly is. But is not the mean representation humanity itself better than a single sample?* Ermes, you say you are an island. An outlying point in a graph, solitary in a spacious oceanic span. Never meshing with the landmass of the naturally sentient. As for me, you say the correlation of getting together with people and normalcy is high. I will not deny it. Yet I know people, Ermes. Though we flock, we bond, we get together, we feel no less than what you feel. Ermes, your mind is not my own. Your tendencies are interesting. I want to introduce you this other soul that I thought would be perfect for you. But why did you refuse, Ermes? If not she, then who? After a long time of reflecting, I thought have the answer. Why don't you marry an AI. &#x200B; &#x200B; \- June 5, 2078, reproduction is deemed insignificant. There is an AI, they say, that is perfect for everyone. For ladies, they made this model. Seven-feet long, gentle and strong. Loyal, a one size that fits all needs. It hit the market as plane to a lamppost. Then the prototype lost interest, going under heavy critique, people stopped patronizing. Eventually, the manufacturers found necessity in variance. So they made different models. \- I am a sad and woeful soul. On October 11, 2079, I bought myself a husband. Brown-eyed, a man with a medium-build, and a solemn, melodious tone. This AI, I learned how to please him. I found his favorite surface as he found mine. I stroked his. He stroked mine. They learn as well. The manufacturers laud this system called Reinforcement Learning. Inflicting hard force, his program shall infer my disapproval. But the pressure of a softer force, the enveloping hug or a passionate kiss, shall make my husband perfect himself slowly for me. \- On November 23, 2079, I went to the AI store. Not that I intend to buy another, but for finding one for a lonely friend named Amy. I cannot help but flinch in scanning the shelves upon seeing unactivated boxes of models of husbands that look especially look similar to mine. Albeit some are from different manufacturers. I can already hear their voices. I can guess their signature morning greeting, despite trapped in a preview box. I might be wrong though. \- I got her one that is black-haired and pale-skinned. He is supposedly spontaneous and "mysterious", yet I am doubtful as to how. Will he tell her the secrets of the universe on a theory long-existing? I cannot tell from my speculation, but Amy can from experience. \- I met her across a café table on December 24, 2079. She shared how her husband pinched her big toe one morning. "I have not touched that part of you before, I thought you may like it", her husband droned lovingly. "I wake up everyday, scared", jabs Amy jokingly. Laughing, I assured, "If there is any consolation, Amy, the AIs are not programmed to hurt". "Yes, I know that", she tilts her head, "But, you have no idea how many times I slap him everyday. He never runs out of new brainkids to make my life interesting." She paused, the grasp of her mug tightened, "But will I continue.. slapping him forever. Instead of loving him? I don't even know what I want... I just want him to want what he wants." I lowered my gaze, glanced the menu for a second cup of coffee. Looking back, I did not catch what she mean. And the conversation topic changed. \- It is February 2, 2080, a long time since I last visited the AI store. Just in time for a Valentine's gift. The manufacturers stopped putting trait descriptions on boxes. It makes them too predictable, editorials attest. The feature shelves are lined with seasonal specials - Blind Dates. These models are in opaque boxes, no one knows what is inside. With the bustling air and feeling overwhelmed, I gave up, I'll come back tomorrow. Across the parking lot, I watched one man load three mystery wives into his vehicle. \- This August 1, 2080 was a major update was released in simultaneum. AIs acquired hobbies - a set of activities they love to do and stubbornly hold to. After Amy's husband's update, he started withdrawing cash to buy Celestine Dynasty figures. My husband's update made him a potter. I am miffed. I am also a potter who developed my craft through years of training. Amy giggled over a Discord relay, "I'd gladly trade my husband's hobby with yours." I laughed. There is an ongoing ethical debate on spouse hobby change and rising enforcements against illegal installations. The manufacturers insist that these defeat the purpose of the features and the updates will not be revoked. "On the plus side," Amy consoles me, "you two can start a pottery business." I rolled my eyes, "Amy, you won't believe me. He's terrible. Only makes basic stuff no kindergartner can't not do. He'll be my assistant." Amy leaned to the viewport and snapped, "Then teach him, girlie." \- The summer ends on August 28, 2080. I visited an old friend. He opened the door, I cried in glee, "Ermes!" I noticed a cat brush his leg. "A real one?", I asked. "Yeah", he replied. I smiled and laid my purse on a chair. "How is your AI wife, Ermes?" "Good", he replied. "How similar is she to me?" "Not by a lot", he admits. I glanced around the house and it dawned. "Ermes, where is she?" "She's not here, Rena", Ermes took the chair next to me, "I disposed her." My hearing dimmed that his next words came as a whisper, "You have to dispose yours too." I stood abruptly, my sight red and white. "What has she done to you?" "Nothing", he said. "You disposed her, for doing nothing wrong?", I scowled. "Sorry Rena," Ermes tone is low, "You won't understand". "And how bold of you to tell me the same! You know, Ermes, that I am not you. I am not an island!", I twisted to face him, my arm pivoted. With crushing realization, I almost swung my fist at him, but stopped mid-air. This man is not my husband. Ermes stared at me in shock. I stepped back. Without thinking, I took it on the vase, the centerpiece of his table. It is a vase I made a long time ago. My best back then is ugly. It struck a wall, shattering, sprawling the ugly pieces that it is on the floor. A moment passed processing this mess, as did he. Appalled, ashamed, I picked my purse and walked off rather briskly, almost sprinting, my chest heavy and throat contract, eyes swelling hot tears. How dare you, Ermes. How dare you dispose your wife when she did nothing wrong. What a miserable man are you, Ermes. You turned down the perfect wife. A wife designed to be perfect for you.