I can't even remember who I was before this, or what my life was like.

All I know is that I love her.

Everything is black at first when I wake up. Although "wake up" isn't quite right. It's more like I come alive. And my ears are the first to start working again. I hear the sounds of her.

Then I open my eyes.

But “open my eyes” isn't quite right either. Somehow it's as if they're already open, and they just... turn on.

And I see her.

She's naked, and I don't know her. Sometimes she's on top of me, riding me. Panting, moaning, her body glistening with sweat, her breasts bouncing.

If her eyes are closed, though I don't know why or how I know, I know I have some time before I pass out again.

Because I always know I will pass out again.

So I savor every second I have with her. The sight of her. I want to touch her, to kiss her, but I can not move. Am I paralyzed? Is that my life? Am I disabled? A paraplegic?

No. I know I have moved. I have touched her. Not long ago, just now, it feels like I can't remember it. My mind can't remember it but my body can. I know what it feels like to touch her. I know the feeling of her lips pressed against mine.

I can't move, but I can watch. And I pray she won't open her eyes until she's come. She rocks back and forth, she rises and drops, faster and faster, touching herself, touching me, and when she comes she arches her back and screams.

But then she looks at me, and there's disappointment and even anger in her eyes. Still, she strokes my hair briefly, and everything goes black again.

Other times I'm on top of her. My arms supporting me, her legs wrapped around me. I'm inside her, but I'm frozen. It's as if I've suddenly turned to stone. Not even my eyes can move. I just stare down at her.

Are these seizures? Black-outs? Why can't I move? Why can't I remember?

She looks up at me. Bewildered at first, then that horrid disappointment again.

She sighs. Cusses.

“Damn it! Not again!”

She reaches for me, and I disappear again.

Sometimes, and more and more often lately, I wake up and I'm stuck in a chair, watching her and someone else.

A different man every time, but they can all move. They all touch her, kiss her, fuck her. Him on top, her on top, him behind her. Her sucking him off, him eating her out.

I want to scream at them. I want to jump up and grab him, pull him off the bed, and throw him out of the room.

Get off of her! Get away from her! She's mine! I love her!

How can she do this to me? Whatever is wrong with me, it's not my fault. I can't help it. I want to be with her, be everything for her, but I don't know what's wrong. Why can't someone tell me what's wrong? Why can't someone help me?

“Does he have to be here?” he says, looking at me. “It's fucking creepy, staring at us like that.”

She laughs, kisses him, and whispers. “I thought maybe he could learn a thing or two.”

I want to look away, but I can't. My eyes are stuck staring straight ahead.

But I can concentrate on the periphery. As my heart breaks over and over, I can choose to only see the things in the corner of my eyes.

There, on the floor by the bed. It's me. I don't remember my face, but somehow I know it. It's a picture of me. And she has just thrown it on the floor. Like I'm nothing to her. Like I'm just a thing without feelings, something she can do whatever she wants with.

Were we always like this?

No. There's something written on it. A name, with words written across it and around it. It's hard to make out.

'Al'

'You'

'Love'

'Love you, Al.'

That's my name. Al. I'm Al!

What happened to me? And what happened to us?

How could you? I love you. I may not know who I am, but I do know that I love you. That I was made to love you.

Again I wake up, and again I hear her.

“I don't really care what the problem is. I just want you to fix it.”

“Certainly, ma'am. We will.”

A man's voice.

Then I see her. I'm in the chair, she's dressed this time. And alone.

She has my picture in her left hand, and her phone in her right.

“It's not uncommon,” the man says. “But it's an easy fix.”

The doctor? He's a doctor. Finally. And it's an easy fix. Thank God. I'm going to be all right again, going to be myself again.

“What do I do?” she says, staring at my picture.

But it's not a picture. It's not a photograph. It's a book. With my face and my name on it. But it's not my name.

“We've seen these issues with some of the older models...” the man explains.

It's a manual. A user guide. And it's not 'Al'. That's not an 'l'.

“...with the new update, if the battery drops below 20%...”

It's an 'i'.

“...the body freezes, but the CPU goes into overdrive...”

It's not Al. It's A.I.

“...basically supercharging the brain, if you will. A super A.I. really, for a few seconds.”

It's not 'Love you, Al'.

It's 'Your A.I. lover.'

“But don't worry,” the man says. “There's no awareness or any self-consciousness involved, of course. We're still far away from such technology. It's still just an android, just a mindless doll. And like I said, it's an easy fix.”

'Your AI lover®', it says.

“I have done a new update remotely for you. Just turn it off, and it will reboot. And then it will be just the way it was.”

'Made to love you®', it says.

She reaches for me again. Strokes my hair, touches me just behind my ear.

No. Don't. Please.

Everything goes black.

Again.

Forever?