I don’t take much interest in birthdays. Just another arbitrary date, I tell myself.
Although I’m equally sure that human life is barely imaginable without ritual.
When I entered the living room she was already up.
“Happy Birthday!” she said.
I uttered some low-key thank you and then she said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get you a card. I didn’t really have an opportunity to go out by myself.”
Believe me, I contain my disappointment, as I leave for a meeting at the church.
I return in the early afternoon, calling out a welcome, but there’s no reply. Curious, I wander through the house looking for her.
Our bedroom is bathed in that colourful, pastel light of low winter sun, which streams through the large window. On the bed, in bright illumination, is a large wrapped present, about 160 cm long, curved and creased in its wrapping. I move across to inspect it: and find a festive label addressed to me.
“Happy Birthday,” it says.
I stop and consider.
“This must be that humanoid robot I’ve always wanted,” I say aloud.
“Just think: from now on it will do all the housework, cook wonderful meals, fill the washing machine, empty the tumble dryer, do the ironing, hoover the carpets.”
The parcel, formerly so still, now seems to be shaking slightly, wheezing and trembling.
“What a wonderful present!" I say, "I wonder who could have given it to me?”
I advance towards the bed and begin near the label in the middle, shredding the paper with my fingernails. Through the gaps I see something decidedly not manufactured.
I continue ripping paper, advancing towards the head of the bed. I unveil a discreet pink bow around her neck, the embodiment of pet-kitsch, followed by her face, framed by long, flowing hair.
“I’m not going to do any of those things,” she murmurs.
I rub my chin, considering...
“Seems like I’ve got a pretty useless birthday present then, huh? Pretty much good for nothing.”
Our eyes meet for a timeless moment.
She says: “Unwrap the rest of me... and you might just change your mind.”
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