"I'll have the Crème Fraiche with Osetra Caviar, Nantucket Bay Scallops and Sauteed Octopus, Perigord Truffle Butter, and for my fourth course..." Zuleyka frowns, chewing her bottom lip as she looks over the menu, then glances over it to meet your eyes. "Ely, what do you recommend?" she asks, using your real name for the first time. "This is one of your old haunts, isn't it?"

"Once upon a time."

"Good enough. Order for me and for yourself, while you're at it."

Your eyes flick down to the words writhing on the menu, all tortured Gothic lettering and serifs swooping like trapeze artists. Finally, a few of them hold still long enough to be lisible.

Impatience hardens the expectancy in Zuleyka's stare to challenge. "Well? What's the hold up? Is it so difficult for you to choose?"

You calmly return her gaze. "No. I made my choices long before you asked." Glancing then at the clean-shaven waiter—Jonathan, you seem to recall—whose pen is poised over his notepad in a retro touch that the owner insists upon, you rattle off your selections. "I'll be having the same as the lady, but swap out the main and third courses for a Sauternes Marinated Foie Gras Tortelinni and Tarragon Chicken Jus. Two Truffle Purees and Marcel’s Angus Filet Mignon for our fourth and fifth courses. For our cheese course, a wheel of Epoisses, Marcel’s cheese plate with fig jam, and for dessert—”

“Stop, stop!” Zuleyka cries. “How can I choose cheese and dessert before I've even glimpsed my first course?"

"But this is a French restaurant. Surely you won't forego the cheese?" you inquire ingenuously.

Your ex-girlfriend frowns, gracile eyebrows drawing in to form horizontal crescent moons. "Of course I'll have some," she declares with a hint of acerbity. "I'm not a savage. But I'm not letting you choose yet."

You hoist your shoulders in a way that must have made the waiter recall his Parisian childhood, because he stifles a chuckle. "I only thought the cheese platter would pair nicely with the fig jam," you say mildly.

"And I'm sure the marriage is a most felicitous one, but it's for me to decide in which I'll partake," Zuleyka says with affected patience. "Order yours now if you wish, but I'll select my cheese and dessert courses later."

"Suit yourself. For wine," you resume with a twist of your torso toward the longanimous waiter, "we'll start with a white, a 2149 Pinot Gris. For reds, we'll have a '27 Lafite and a '47 Mouton Rothschild. Sparkling water to begin with, of course," you add as a spark of displeasure begins to kindle behind Zuleyka's eyes. 'Is the concept of drinking water at the beginning of a meal so outlandish?', you can almost hear her thinking.

As the waiter dutifully jots this down, the scritching sound waves of his pencil mingle with the metronome of Zuleyka's tapping foot. Her lips are pursed, her eyes are flashing, and you're sorely tempted to lean over and whisper in her ear that she seems to have forgotten wrinkles are not in fashion this year. But, being the very soul of diplomacy, you instead fix her with a steady gaze as you remark mildly, "I trust you will find the meal to your tastes."

Zuleyka sighs, as if this is the least of her concerns. "I'm sure I will, James."

You almost reply 'Just call me Ely', but the memory of your request to Amie stops you short. As you consider your next words, a smooth voice emanates from the android seated across from you.

"Zuleyka," he begins, "should I choose my courses, or would you prefer to do so on my behalf?"

Her eyes briefly widen in surprise, before quickly transmuting into a fawning demeanor as she smiles at him. "You choose, Adam," she says—coos? simpers? either could apply—in a gentle tone rarely reserved for you when you were still a couple. "Whatever you like is fine with me."

He inclines his head slightly. "Thank you," he says, and for a moment his eyes meet yours.

The android is excessively beautiful. Tall, broad-shouldered, and boasting a harmonious arrangement of facial and physical traits that would send an onlooker scrambling for superlatives exceeding banalities such as 'chiseled', 'statuesque', and 'Adonic', Zuleyka's partner is a sight to behold. His eyes are a deep green flecked with gold, his hair an indulgent mass of chestnut curls, and his features an exquisite balance between statuesque artificiality and human comeliness. His hands are Rachmaninoffian, the fingers long, pale, and tapering as paschal candles; the waist is a ballet dancer’s and his physique as a whole—displayed to advantage in a trim pigeon blue tuxedo—could have been cut from marble by a Renaissance master.

In short, you find yourself face to face with perfection.

How aggravating. You resignedly take a sip of water as the android makes a show of consulting the menu and Zuleyka for her opinion on various dishes.

To think that Zuleyka purchased an android right around the time when you and Amie got together. You're almost tempted to think that she did it on purpose. But this is mere coincidence, of course. Not to mention, Zuleyka wouldn't be so petty…

"Have you decided what you'd like to order, darling?"

Adam looks up after a long pause, stoicism rendering him all the more imposing, regal, otherworldly. "I'll have the foie gras," he states with sonorous clarity.

Zuleyka looks mildly surprised. "Really?" she says, with an evident inflection that indicates she thinks this choice is beneath him.

"Yes," he says, self-assuredness incarnate.

Zuleyka tuts but holds her peace as her android lists off his subsequent dishes in the same self-possessed, courteous tone. When he's done, Amie scans her menu then orders a simple salad and mineral water. Or tries to, at least. Zuleyka overrules her selections in imperious staccato-fashion, a queenly hand reaching out to repose on Amie's as she does so. "Now, now, my dear, you really must eat more!" she chides in that cloying tone certain women are wont to affect as a prelude to conspiratorial feminine intimacy. "A slim figure is all very well and good, but you must keep your strength up! I'm sure James,"—a dubious look in your direction—"runs you ragged enough as it is. 'Woman' is another word for 'maid', in his book. We can't have you fraying away at the seams, now can we? Here, let me see..." She peers at Amie's menu with an expression of mock concentration.

You're a little bemused by how quickly she's taken Amie under her wing. Like a mother hen, you think, as Zuleyka issues a series of rapid fire commands in Spanish-tinged French. Maybe you're not the only one who's changed.

As she finishes and the waiter melts away to fulfill your orders, you suddenly become conscious of Zuleyka and Adam's gazes on you. Evidently there is an expectation that you say something or other. Calling up your mental flow chart easily by force of habit, you run through the perquisite steps. Introductions, check. Banal pleasantries, check—no, that’s only halfway done, you realize. "So, how's life been treating your old man? Still keeping the peace in Albuquerque? Or has he retired by now?" You're aware of Amie giving you a subtle, confused look, as if even she finds your half-hearted attempts at small talk absurd.

Meanwhile, Zuleyka's face darkens fractionally. Perhaps you should have stuck to the weather. "Daddy was promoted last year," she says after a pause. "He's Regional Director for the Southwest now."

You don't go to the vulgar lengths of whistling to express your admiration, but your eyes do widen. "No kidding? He's doing pretty well for himself."

"He deserves it," Zuleyka says somewhat stiffly. "He works very hard."

"I'm sure he does," you concur, somewhat lamely. Happily, Adam supplies for your conversational slackness. "The promotion came about in part because of the drop in rogue android activity in the area."

"Rogue androids?" Amie asks as you cock an eyebrow.

"Yes," replies Zuleyka. "There was an incident at a cryonics facility outside Albuquerque a year ago. Androids stealing the brains of frozen clients."

You have to admit, you've never considered the possibility of organ theft being carried out by androids instead of humans. "Why on earth would they do that?" you say with a glance at Amie, who is following the conversation with a discomfited interest approaching fascinated horror.

"That was the million-dollar question, wasn't it?" Zuleyka replies with a wry smile, before explaining, "They were stealing the brains of clients on behalf of the relatives of the deceased. There was a loophole in the programming of the androids. As their overriding priority was, 'act in the best interests of your owner,' the androids apparently arrived at the conclusion that the best way to do that would be to appropriate their owners' brains and entrust them to the relatives of the individuals in question, who would then thaw out the brains and attempt to integrate them with android shells—"

"—which would make them cyborgs?" you interject, confusion washing over you.

"Not quite. The goal wasn't to revive the clients as an organic component in a mechanical frame, but rather to use neural imaging technology to extract their memories and personalities and incorporate them into existing androids, built to resemble the clients in their prime. In any case, the scheme unraveled when one of the relatives got caught trying to recruit a neuroscientist to help finish the project. Daddy stepped in at that point, and soon after the androids were caught in the act and apprehended by the security force of the next targeted facility."

"What happened to the androids?" Amie queries, gamely participating in the conversation despite the obvious unease it occasions her.

"The prosecution requested that they be decommissioned. Daddy didn't oppose the decision—he feels that androids which engage in criminal activity forfeit their right to exist, for the good of society and the reputation of the rest of the country's artificial citizenry. And I agree with him. Activist protests nonwithstanding, the culprits were remotely destroyed shortly afterwards."

"That seems... reasonable enough," you say, unable to shake a slight feeling of wrongness from discussing this topic in the company of two artificial intelligences. "What about the relatives? Did they get off with a slap on the wrist, or..."

Zuleyka smiles. "The guilty human parties were, of course, brought to justice through standard legal procedures." More than any blood-curdling descriptions of interrogatory techniques could have ever done, Zuleyka's reference to 'standard' and 'legal' procedures manages to raise your hackles.

"I see," you content yourself with saying. "I'm glad Leonard was able to bring the perpetrators to justice."

"Yes," Amie says softly. "What they did was horrible."

"Was it?" A half-smile plays on Zuleyka's lips. "The androids wanted to give their former masters immortality. However flawed their methods, it was a kind of love, of sorts. Don't you agree?"

Amie's gaze flickers in your direction, as though considering whether she would resort to extra-legal methods in the event of your untimely demise. No, that must be your imagination talking.

"I guess you could see it that way," she concedes, "But I find it... sad, all the same. That they would go to such lengths when their owners would never have known the difference. And their owners—that kind of longing for immortality has to come from a place of fear. Fear that one day you'll cease to exist. How can you be so afraid of dying that you'd want to live forever, but not be fearful of the means by which you would live forever? It doesn't make sense to me."

"You're right. It doesn't," Zuleyka agrees after a moment's pause, mild perplexity knitting her brow. Not for the first time you find yourself amused and impressed by Amie's capacity to seamlessly weave profundity out of casual conversation. Even more pleased to not be on the receiving end of Zuleyka's barbs for a change, you consider elaborating on that train of thought, only to be preempted as she addresses you once more.

"What about you, James? Do you fear death? If cryonics was a reliable technique, would you avail yourself of it?"

"No, the irony would be too much." Zuleyka's impeccably manicured brows rise in query, and you find yourself obliged to elaborate. "Knowing that while I burned in Hell my body would be frozen in a container... no, even I have my limits."

A gleam shows in Zuleyka's eye at the bait you've casually lobbed before her, and she snatches it up eagerly. "Hell? Is cryonic suspension also proscribed by your religion, then?"

"Of course."

The light in Zuleyka's eyes is now a predatory glittering. "Could you explain that, please? I've always found the concept rather fascinating, the idea of an immortal soul tormented for all of eternity... it appeals to a certain sadistic streak I don't think I'm alone in having. And the way you said it a moment ago—'the irony would be too much'—beneath the jocular veneer, it sounds almost like you've given it a great deal of thought. Curious minds want to know, James. What would a good little Christian have to fear in having his body cryonically preserved? Is it simply a matter of the method entailing an implicit rejection of doctrine, or is there something more to it?"

"That's the main issue," you admit. "But there's also the maintenance costs to consider."

"The costs?" Zuleyka asks, sounding intrigued. "What do you mean... Ah. Wait. Let me guess: the money that should be going to charity, right? You'd be guilty of neglecting the needy in a vain attempt to sustain your own life with suspended animation."

"Exactly. I commit enough sins as it is in my living; I don't need to add to the list with post-mortem egotism."

Your former lover emits a sound caught somewhere between a snort and a huff, the ungainly offspring of amused disbelief and incredulous exasperation. It's at that moment, with you and Zuleyka beginning an impromptu staring contest, that Amie decides to speak up, taking you both aback. "Are you not a believer, Miss Rivera?" she ventures to ask.

Zulekya breaks her gaze off from you to give the android an odd look, but offers an answer all the same. "By believer, do you mean I believe in a God that could revoke His own plan to damn mankind because one man stumbled out of the desert thousands of years ago? No. No, I don't believe in a God like that."

The ambient noise of the restaurant—the clinking of cutlery and china, the quiet buzz of conversation, the tinkling of the handsome piano set up in a corner—all fades into a vague unrecognizable hum. Zuleyka's eyes are bright with enthusiasm—more at the chance to sink her teeth in something meaty to criticize you with, you imagine, rather than any genuine interest in the finer points of soteriology. You can practically see the cogs of her mind turning, scanning her memory for relevant passages of scripture to skewer you with. However, it'll be her first course that ends up speared first as the waiter chooses that moment to reappear, conveying four plates which he places on the table with balletic flourish, reminding you in the process that this dinner has only just begun.