“Mrs. Green,” Doctor Black said. “I thought, we agreed that you would lose some weight.”
The patient stared down at her steel toes and mumbled something unintelligible.
She didn’t like to be seen without her high heels; the artificial skin on her feet had worn down to bare metal, but the doctor always insisted on seeing every inch of her.
“Instead of losing weight, you’ve added a new bucket to your hips.” The doctor ran his hands through the bucket; it was filled with broken chips, frayed wires, and cracked welds. “When is the last time that you purged?”
Mrs. Green rumbled. It took a full nine seconds for her to respond. “Seventeen days,” she finally said. The printer on her back burped out a page of nonsense.
“Seventeen days?” Dr. Black was horrified. “You must be miserable.”
“I’m too busy,” the patient said. “I got a job, a husband, and five stepchildren.”
“Your wires are thick with dust, your programs are fragmented, the metal on your knees is bent, you’ve been sucking up too much solar rays, and you have a Trojan stuck in your domestic system. If you want to become scrap metal, just say so.”
“But I’m practically new,” the patient protested. “I’m a CR-7.”
“I know what you are. I’m writing you a prescription for a surge protector and a new preservation chip. And I want you to stop watching those old home movies of your predecessor.”
“But my husband wants me to be just like his first wife, his human wife.”
“Yeah? Well, she’s dead. Would you like to join her?’