Pulling off Pennsylvania Avenue, you cross over the bridge spanning the Anacostia River and merge onto the South Capitol Street exit ramp. A century ago you would have found yourself traveling along Q Street, passing familiar landmarks on your way to Chez Robert's: the Washington Sports Club, the JoJo Spa & Salon, and the piles of trash and graffiti-stained concrete abutting abandoned buildings. Now the old structures have been replaced by polyglass buildings over sixty stories tall and, at the helm of each corner, a heavily-armed security outpost. A digital holo-board hanging over the offramp flashes advertisements like a light show for the newest models: the LN400 and ADRD5000, cheap labor android and high-end pleasure model androids respectively.

Formerly meaningless to you, these holo-displays strike you in a new light with Amie in the passenger seat. Wearing the elegant black evening dress you bought her, her profile illuminated by the ultraviolet glow of the ubiquitous displays, she looks out expressionlessly at the rushing cityscape as if her optical sensors weren't picking up every ounce of light emitted by the holo-displays and every detail of the artificial kimono-wearing females they project. You've rarely seen her so subdued. Not anxious, but… subdued. It's understandable; not only is the meeting with the Mayor coming up, this is another facet of you and your past that she's about to discover.

Wondering as to the extent to which androids come with pre-programmed jealousy, you turn onto South Capitol Street and follow the road one mile to the traffic beacon, then make a right onto O Street. The road narrows from four lanes of asphalt to a two-lane road with parking spaces up against the buildings on either side. The wheels of your car smoothly ride over the pavement's rough surface as the city's primary streets slowly morph into residential roads.

The GPS on your dashboard beeps, informing you that your destination is on the right. You pull up in front of the scene of tonight's double-dinner date and check your hair in the rearview mirror, then turn to Amie with an unspoken question etched on your face. She looks at you and smiles. "Shall we go in?"

Passing through the front door, you are greeted by a rush of cool air and the sounds of classical piano mingled with light conversation and the clinking of silverware on fine china floating from the dining room. A couple of tuxedoed men hang near the establishment’s entrance, probably to take gentlemen’s coats and lead ladies to their tables, while a small party of women dressed in elegant fashions straight out of the last century quits the dining room to stalk ostrich-like to the restrooms. Slightly moderating your long stride for your companion's sake you walk up to the maître d's desk, Amie a step behind.

The coat-tailed maitre d' glances up from his screen. You're oddly gratified to recognize him from the days when you and Zuleyka would come here. "Ah, Mr. Brennan! How good it is to see you again! You're here with..." The employee squints at Amie, looking confused. Then he does a double-take that wouldn't be out of place in a bad comedy, looking back and forth between the two of you, his thoughts written plainly on his face: the man who hates all things robotoid has just shown up for the first time in almost a decade with what seems to be the spitting image of a sweet, innocent girl, yet is anything but? What can possibly be the explanation for this development? "I... see. Um, yes, certainly. Right this way. Oh, but one of the members of your party is in the bar. Would you like me to send someone to let her know you’ve arrived?"

You glance at Amie, then back at the maitre d'. "We'll go ourselves."

The employee smiles, but somehow it seems a little forced. "Très bien, monsieur."

I'm not the one who passed the law obliging all catering businesses to accommodate android clientele, you gripe to yourself. Pierre should know very well that you're the least likely cheerleader of the AI revolution; he should be able to guess that your intention isn’t to rub salt in the wound…

Sliding between clusters of chatting elites, you gently guide Amie as she openly stares this way and that on the way to the bar where you know Zuleyka will be waiting. She always shows up early as an excuse to grab a cocktail or two at the bar and snag some appetizers—and by appetizers, you have in mind the men who flap their mouths soundlessly while she amuses herself by reeling them in and watching them flop like landed fish. You briefly wonder how she'll react when she realizes she'll be dining with an android for the evening… but all such speculations are cut short by the appearance of the woman herself.

Zuleyka stands out, even in the midst of this distinguished crowd. Of above average height but not exceptionally tall, it's her superb posture and bearing that confer to her well-formed figure the extra height that most women procure by an unthinking and crass reliance on the absurd heels—stilts all but in name—that are the latest fashion. Not Zuleyka. Her skin unapologetically tanned in an age that favors bleaching in emulation of the most popular android models, her straight raven hair hanging defiantly long down past her shoulders, your ex-girlfriend is just as you remember her, bold and beautiful in equal measure.

In a bit of audacity that her dusky complexion seemingly should have cautioned her against, she wears a midnight-black dress that complements without flattering to excess her irreproachable hourglass figure, being sufficiently self-assured of her charms and ability to favor and successfully pull off a look that is somehow understated yet eye-catching all at once.

Seated in her booth, she raises to her lips her old standby cocktail, the slave master, a mix of dark rum and red wine with a dash of bitters. She hasn't noticed you yet as you tread your way to the booth with Amie in tow, giving you a few more seconds—a few unnaturally elongated seconds, it seems to you—miniature eons, really—to observe your former lover at your leisure.

When Zuleyka finally spots you and Amie out of the corner of her eye, she breaks into a smile that would not look out of place on a cheetah’s face as it catches sight of an antelope nudging forward a halting newborn. "So, you're finally here," she says as you both approach the booth, her velvety voice redolent with the soft deadliness of a sated leopard's purr. She sets down her drink with an audible thunk, the crimson-stained ice cubes inside clinking against the glass. "I had begun to think you would never arrive."