When I wake. He doesn’t wake, he can’t—he’s asleep when you leave and then you take the chit out of the VR slot and he’s deactivated, he doesn’t wake. He’s just there when you slip the chit into the slot again, like a computer game. He doesn’t actually sleep, does he?
He snakes an arm around your waist, covering your leg with his, his knee heavy where it rests on your thigh. “Can I ask you something?”
No. You can’t imagine what he’s going to say. He’s not supposed to say anything—he’s supposed to go to sleep and let you marvel at him; doesn’t he know the script by now?
Three nights a week—you can’t even remember how many weeks it’s been since that guy at the office first told you about the virtual reality joints downtown. With your carefully worded questions you discovered you could cre
