The Perfect Guy
by Regina Thomas

M eghan, what do you know about artificial intelligence?

I say I don’t know much, and Matt says that’s fine because he has something important to tell—no, show me, he corrects himself.

He says that showing me will be easier than telling me because like all human beings, I’ll need to see what he’s talking about in order to believe it.

Matt and I first met on what had to have been my thousandth app date, and tonight’s our fifth date, our “if this guy plays his cards right, he might get lucky and have the privilege of buying me breakfast” date. When Matt and I matched, I honestly thought it was a mistake because he seemed too good to be true. His smile a little too pearly white and even, his skin so smooth as to be almost plastic-like in its unblemished perfection, and his electric, hazel-green eyes shone a bit too brightly even through the screen.

His profile said he was a personal trainer and a spin instructor, and the photos he’d posted to his profile were textbook dating app. Matt posing next to one of those shiny, tricked-out electric bikes. Matt joshing around with a kid that his bio said wasn’t his. Matt’s golden chest and biceps triumphantly displayed, a white towel draped over his hips in the proverbial post-shower bathroom selfie that had me practically salivating in astonishment that such an Adonis had decided to swipe left on little old me. That’s not to say that I don’t know my own worth because I’ve been doing just fine on the dating front. I’m a solid seven, even an eight if I straighten my hair, throw on some falsies, and don’t ask too many questions. But, if I’m honest, my first reaction to us matching was that it had to be a mistake. This biracial thirst trap would never actually ask me out on a date in the real world. Maybe some light sexting followed by a late-night nudes exchange, culminating in an unceremonious unmatching, but I didn’t expect an actual relationship to come out of it.

And yet Matt did ask me out on a date to get coffee the same day we matched and asked me out on more dates after that, each one better than the last.

* * *

I’ve been debating on whether this is the right time to show you, Matt says now as we sit on the couch in his disgustingly neat studio apartment.

Show me what? I say, taking Matt’s hand into my own as I begin to feel nervous.

Matt grasps the collar of his V-neck shirt, beginning to pull it over his head. Was he about to show me a third nipple? No nipples at all? Was that the big reveal?

Now he’s shirtless in front of me, his chiseled chest displaying the appropriate amount of nipples with clay-colored areola. Slowly Matt takes my hand in his and wordlessly places it on the left side of his chest, over his heart, to rest on stubbleless, smooth, caramel skin. With his two hands covering my own, he pushes my palm firmly inward with a force that surprises me, and before I even know what’s happening, there’s the sound of an electronic pop, the sound of something being opened and the resulting air being released. Now there’s a tiny door that opens in Matt’s chest where a pulsating heart should be displayed but instead contains wires and cogs, almost like the inner workings of a large clock, operating in unison to the tune of a beating heart.

Our first date was at the coffee shop where I go on all of my first dates. I take all of my dates there because it’s within walking distance of my apartment, and I don’t feel as bad about asking Mrs. Rogers down the hall to watch Leah for an hour or so. Also I read once that daytime dates are the quickest way to weed out the players who are only in it for the sex. I had a double macchiato with an extra shot, Matt a glass of water that remained half full after a few initial, tentative sips. I only had an hour and couldn’t believe how fast time flew by as I answered his questions about my life, where I’d grown up, etc. He told me I was the first person my age he’d met who’d actually been born and raised in the city, while I told him he was my first app date who was actually as tall as the height he listed in his bio. Right before we parted at the entrance of the coffee shop, Matt moved in for a brief kiss, his cool lips brushing up against my cheek. That night as I lay in bed, I could still feel the delightful chill of our first initial contact.

Our second date was bowling—his idea, not mine—where he hit all strikes and I mostly spares. That’s when I started to become suspicious about the fact that Matt wouldn’t eat food. I mean who turns down bowling-alley French fries and mini corndogs fresh out the fryer? Matt said he’d been born in Palo Alto, no father in the picture, and his mother had worked at Stanford as the chair of their robotics department. She’d passed a few years back, he told me, and that’s when I decided to change the subject by dropping a bit of my own backstory.

Some moms I know list in their dating profiles that they have a kid, but I do things a bit differently. I want my dates to get to know me a bit before judging me and writing me off so that I get a fair chance, but at the same time I don’t want to lead these guys on if a chick with a kid is an absolute deal-breaker. Still, it’s the sort of news that can suck the air out of a room, but luckily Matt seemed legit interested and even asked to see a photo of Leah.

The third date was our first nighttime excursion. Leah was with her dad’s mom for the weekend, I had concert tickets from a friend, and it was the first date I asked Matt out on. He’d been happy to go, in fact told me it was his very first concert ever, which was pretty surprising. Maybe he meant his first show in the city? Afterward we strolled hand in hand as he’d exclaimed that concerts, like most situations of humans convening together in large numbers, were powerful experiences full of social knowledge to be gained. Afterward we made out on a bench for an hour until he walked me to my front door like a true gentleman.

The fourth date was a bit of an impromptu experience, a decision I most likely wouldn’t have made if I hadn’t been under the influence of my Aunt Tita’s margaritas. My family, we’re big, loud, obsessed with each other, and dispersed throughout the area. At least once a month we try to come together to meet, drink, and be merry. This time it was a park barbeque where I was double-fisting hot dogs, with Leah running around in the background, when Matt texted me that he was in the city for the afternoon and asked whether I was willing to hang out last minute. I’ll once again blame it on Tita’s ambrosia, but I texted him the address of the park and told him to get his ass over here. God, I can’t believe I did that. Out of all the guys I’ve dated, none of them have met Leah. These relationships usually fizzle out right around the time I think they might be ready. But Matt was different; for whatever reason, I never felt any fear about revealing myself to him and showing him my life.

Now, on our fifth date, Matt sits here in front of me, washboard abs on full display below an entryway into his soul, the place where a heart should have been, that instead displays an intricate, mechanical structure.

Meghan, I have a story to tell you, Matt says, calm and unblinking as he stares into my presumably shocked face.

A story?

It’s a story I’ve never told anyone before. It’s the story of how I was created into existence.

Was the shock I was experiencing showing clearly on my face or did it even matter? Did he even have feelings that could be hurt?

Abruptly I pull my hands away from Matt’s chest and get off the couch to stand as far away from him as I can on the other side of the room, next to his sleek exercise bike. Unfazed, Matt closes the door to his chest and puts his shirt back on. He remains on the couch, granting me the distance I desperately need in this moment. A long period of almost impenetrable silence looms, and I can’t take my eyes off Matt as I scan his face and body for any evidence of his true nature. No hint, no sign can I find that he isn’t anything close to the man he has seemed to be. He’s more comfortable in this silence than I am, sitting absolutely still on the couch with perfect posture, blinking predictably every few seconds.

Finally, after what feels like minutes have passed, I’m able to speak again.

Matt, are you a…a… I struggle to find the right word to encompass the mechanics of what I just saw inside of his—could I even call it a body? Clearing my voice, I try again.

Matt, are you a robot?

No, I am an android, which is similar to a robot, as both are artificial intelligence.

Okay, an android, I think to myself as I attempt to logically process what he’s just said through the haze of shock I’m experiencing. Now I potentially have a starting point, a framework to try to make sense of what I’ve just seen. I began scouring my memories for any relevant info I unknowingly possess about androids or even their cousins the robots, but all I could bring to mind was TV shows and movies that I’ve seen that took place in the future, none of which seem relevant to what’s happening right now. None of this makes any sense, and I need it to make sense sooner rather than later. How could an android as sophisticated as Matt exist? How could I not have noticed that he wasn’t a real person? He just seemed so perfect, distractingly perfect. I feel like one of those women on those crime shows who don’t realize their new husband is a serial killer because he is just so good with kids.

I’ve gotta go to the bathroom, I say, deciding to punt the issue. Before he can speak I open the door to the right of me, entering and locking it behind me. I pace for a while, letting the confusion wash over me. I throw cold water on my face, the way they do in movies when the character is trying to snap out of it and return to reality, the task at hand. This didn’t make any sense, that much was clear, but at the same time, seeing was believing, and it was easy for me to understand why Matt had decided to take the show-and-then-tell approach. Should I stay or should I go now? I decide to let the violent curiosity get the best of me because I need this to make sense. I leave the restroom still in shock, but now my mission is clear.

Okay, Matt, so how exactly were you created into existence? I ask, using air quotes to emphasize the words he’d just uttered.

I was born in a lab ten years ago.

At Stanford?

Yes and no. My mother, Dr. Hilary Brown, first conceived of my existence during her time at Stanford, but I was actually formed, built part by part, in her basement lab in Palo Alto.

So what’s the difference between a robot and an android?

While both are mechanical in nature, an android, unlike a robot, has been designed to look like, feel like, and mimic a human.

Oh, okay, cool, I say. Thanks for the clarification.

Matt flashes his thousand-megawatt smile at me, and I resist melting into a puddle under his gaze. Damn, had he been designed to be a toothpaste model? I have to keep it together.

My mother, Dr. Hilary, she was a brilliant woman. Complicated but brilliant. Her life’s goal was to create a fully autonomous social android. Arguably I am that being.

Sure, I say. That sounds about right. So what are you made of?

Mostly silicon, plastic, and carbon fibers.

But why, Matt? Did Dr. Hilary ever tell you why she made you in the first place? Like was she just a roboticist and that’s what they do? Or were you created for something… I trail off, looking for the right phrase to better articulate my question of whether his creation had a more sinister purpose.

Meghan, that’s why I love you.

Matt abruptly jumps up from his seat on the couch, moving toward me with inhuman-like speed. Now in front of me, he takes me into his arms. Though my body wants to respond, my mind is too confused to allow me to lean into the embrace. As if sensing my apprehension, Matt retreats, walking backward away from me to stand next to the far end of the couch.

Apologies, he says.

I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the whole reveal or because he’d been the first to utter the L word.

The questions you ask, he continues. They always get right to the point, the heart of the matter. Meghan, you have what Dr. Hilary would have called a very inquisitive mind. She would have liked you, I think. These questions are why I’ve continued to pursue this relationship. In the three years since I’ve entered the dating pool, I have been on 288 first dates, and you’re the only person I’ve gone on a second date with.

Thanks, I guess I’m flattered?

Your questions, the why of it all. I’ve spent the last five years trying to figure that out. What would motivate a woman as brilliant as Dr. Hillary to spend her twilight years, all of her time, resources, and money, to create me? She told me I was to be a prototype, a new being designed to do those tasks that are too dangerous for humans to take on, and also to care for people who can’t care for themselves.

We sat in silence as I chewed on what Matt had just said. So he was meant to be some sort of android helper. I guess that technically makes some type of sense. But why this form in particular that was so clearly designed for the benefit of the female gaze?

Dr. Hilary talked a lot about the missed opportunities she had in her life. The times where she chose science over the conventional aspects of life. She never married, never had children. She called her work her children, and eventually I was her son, the child she could create but never birth from her own womb. She talked a lot about her womb, her reproductive organs, the loneliness she felt.

I’d known women like Dr. Hilary, or at least women who’d had the same concerns about being able to have kids and the legacy they’d leave behind. Being a teen mom myself, the anxiety of an empty womb had never been a problem. One and done was my philosophy, and though I loved my daughter and the person I’d become as her mother, I did not at all yearn for more kids.

Matt, why are you blowing your cover?

I see something in Matt’s eyes change, as if he’s processing my question, which I guess, in his own mechanical way, he is processing my question, putting it through his system, seemingly for analysis.

You are asking why I have decided to reveal my true nature to you?

Bingo. For all intents and purposes, you’ve been passing the smell test for years, and you said you’ve never shown anyone what you just showed me tonight. Why me, Matt? Why now?

As I previously mentioned, I am in love with you, Meghan. The World Wide Web indicates that honesty is always the best policy for loved ones, he says.

Matt was starting to sound more and more like, well, a robot—no, android, I remind myself. I have to respect how he identifies, don’t I? Had he always sounded like this? And if so, why hadn’t I ever noticed? I’d grown used to his long pauses, which I’d though were just another indicator of his thoughtfulness. Now it seemed like those pauses had been so that he could run a quick search engine query.

How can you love me? You literally don’t even have a heart.

While it is true that I do not have a cardiovascular system, it is my belief that this is not required for me to experience the emotion of love.

That doesn’t make sense; none of this makes sense. I think I should go, I say as I stand up and retrieve my bag sitting on the other side of the couch. While I plan on storming out in a flurry of patent confidence, once I close Matt’s apartment door behind me, I sprint down the hallway, deciding to take the stairs over waiting for the elevator.

* * *

Our sixth date was a month after Matt’s big reveal. Actually it wasn’t as much an official date as it was a meeting of the minds and our bodies. After I rushed out of Matt’s studio apartment, I spent a month trying to forget that he existed, even though he was always on my mind. I had so many questions that I knew he would give me answers to if I only asked, but it just didn’t make sense to even try to keep dating him, to carry on as if nothing had happened, like nothing had changed now that he had unapologetically revealed himself to me. My dating golden rule is that once I know a man isn’t a true contender, that means it’s time to bail. Discovering that the guy I was falling for wasn’t even a man at all felt like the obvious indication that I needed to shut that shit down. So as much as it pained me not to respond to his texts, I decided going radio silent was the best move.

And yet he was always on my mind, including now that I’m back home after a night on the town with some of my friends, who I told I needed a girls’ night out after my breakup with Matt. I didn’t really go into details about why I had decided to end things with the perfect guy that I’d been raving about for weeks. While I’d had fun going out dancing and drinking with my crew, with every man who approached our group, I found myself comparing them to Matt. In comparison to him they were all nothing, practically vapor in my eyes.

On this particular night I hate that it’s 3 a.m., the witching hour, and I’m lying in bed still wide awake, thinking, like always, about Matt. Considering how the mechanics of a physical relationship with him would even work. His body, and the soft caramel skin that covered it, all seemed like the real deal, muscles and tendons always perfectly taut and flexed over minimal body fat. I needed to know how intricate his creator had been in her design. Had she accounted for everything, did he have all of the working parts that a biological male would have? When he said he was a real man, what did that mean? I had to know.

Sup. You up? I text Matt from bed.