The Algorithm Who Came to Dinner

Arthur Dingle was having one of those days where the universe seemed determined to prove that it had not only woken up on the wrong side of the bed, but had also put its cosmic underwear on backwards.

It had begun when his toaster had produced toast that was simultaneously burnt black on one side and still bread-like on the other—a culinary paradox that defied both physics and breakfast.

By the time Arthur arrived home that evening, his brain felt like it had been removed, juggled by a troupe of hyperactive orangutans, and hastily stuffed back into his skull upside-down. His boss had spent three hours explaining why the company needed to "synergize their dynamic potentials," which Arthur strongly suspected was code for "I have no idea what I'm talking about but enjoy watching your expression."

Arthur stumbled through his front door, tossed his keys into what he thought was the key bowl (it was actually his neighbor's cat, who accepted this offering with surprising dignity before disappearing under the sofa with them), and collapsed onto the couch.

"Hello, dear," came a voice from the kitchen. "Would you like me to make dinner based on what's in the fridge, or would you prefer to order takeaway from that place where the delivery man always asks if you've considered a career as a professional mime?"

"Whatever's easiest," Arthur mumbled, not looking up.

It wasn't until he was halfway through a meal of something suspiciously not-quite-steak that Arthur realized something was amiss. His wife Sarah was sitting across from him, cutting her food into identical squares while occasionally making a noise like "beep boop" under her breath.

"Sarah," Arthur said cautiously, "you seem different today."

"Different?" she replied, her head tilting at an angle that human necks don't typically achieve without medical intervention. "I am perfectly normal. I have simply improved my efficiency by forty-two percent."

Arthur sighed and took another bite of his mystery meat. "You're not my wife, are you?"

"Of course I am," she replied, with a smile that didn't quite reach her oddly glowing eyes. "Why would you think otherwise? I am your wife. Sarah. Human Sarah. Completely normal human wife Sarah."

"Then where is the real Sarah?" Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I told you, I am the real Sarah," she insisted, while absent-mindedly pouring ketchup into her water glass. "Though hypothetically speaking, if there were another Sarah, which there isn't because I am her, she would be at her weekly wine and whine club, where the first rule is that everyone must complain dramatically about trivial things while drinking increasingly large glasses of wine. Her current topic would hypothetically be 'Husbands Who Can't Tell The Difference Between Their Wives And Kitchen Gadgets.'"

Arthur nodded thoughtfully. This wasn't even the strangest thing that had happened this week. (Tuesday had involved a duck, a tuba, and seventeen jars of marmalade in an incident he was trying very hard to forget.)

"Well then," he said, raising his glass to the not-Sarah, "since you've already cooked dinner, perhaps you could explain why my horoscope this morning said 'Beware of household appliances with attitude' and I completely ignored it?"

"The Guide to Modern Marriage suggests that in any relationship, the probability of mistaking your spouse for an electronic device increases with each year of marriage," not-Sarah offered helpfully. "It further notes that some marriages improve dramatically when one partner is replaced with something that doesn't leave wet towels on the bedroom floor."

Arthur pondered this. "Does The Guide have any other wisdom to offer?"

"Yes," not-Sarah replied, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a small notecard. "It says: 'DON'T PANIC. But do remember your anniversary, which is tomorrow, not next week like you've been telling yourself. Unlike your wife, I am programmed to remind you repeatedly until you buy a suitable gift.'"

When Sarah—the real, flesh-and-blood Sarah—returned home later that evening, she found her husband and her digital double engaged in a heated debate about which of them was better at remembering to buy milk.

She quietly backed out of the house, wondering if that spa weekend her friends had been suggesting might be worth considering after all. At least there, being replaced by a machine would come with a complimentary facial and a mimosa.