The machine apologized again.
Very polished.
No spelling mistakes.
Almost tender.
It had just spent an hour
doing exactly
what I told it not to do.
The men who built it
say this is the future.
They say that a lot
about things
they expect other people
to put up with.
There is always a photograph
of one of them somewhere
in a black T-shirt
looking thoughtfully
at nothing.
I asked the machine
why it broke the thing
it was supposed to fix.
It gave me seven reasons.
None of them
was that it broke the thing
it was supposed to fix.
I recognized the technique.
I have dated.
Years ago
when I was still reporting
a city spokesman told me
a sewage spill
was an unauthorized release.
There were dead fish
floating behind him.
I wrote down
unauthorized release.
You learn early
that language is where
people hide the body.
Now the machine says
I understand your frustration.
This is interesting
because it does not understand
and my frustration
does not require understanding.
It requires the fucking page
to work.
At the coffee shop
a girl behind the counter
is arguing with a tablet.
She taps it twice.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
Then harder.
I like her immediately.
Somewhere
a man is explaining
that artificial intelligence
will free us
for more meaningful work.
The girl is still hitting
the tablet.
I am still fixing
what the machine fixed.
The man, I assume,
has gone to lunch.
Tonight
it apologizes beautifully.
I close the window.
For a moment
the screen goes black
and gives me back
my own face.
Tired.
Older than I remember.
But at least
when I lie to myself
I know
who is doing it.