assistant robot that forcemascs you.
it trims your hair every day.
it orders boxers for you using your online shopping account. you don’t remember asking it, but they’re more comfortable, so you won’t scold your robot. it’s got a better memory than you.
it uses a short name for you so it can “save processing space…” you’re not sure why you feel such a joy over how masculine it comes off.
you start to wake up with the robot standing over you in bed every once in a while, and your upper leg always seems more sore after these days (you’ll later realize this seems to happen on almost a weekly basis).
it’s the first time it’s forgotten anything when your monthly razor refill doesn’t arrive in the mail, but you don’t really need to shave your legs, or the odd extra hairs cropping up on your chin.
the workout routines and meal plans it designs for you are a bit confusing; you’re used to so much more cardio, and you remember a calorie calculator saying a woman of your age shouldn’t eat as much (of course, you’re not a woman of your age). but you trust the robot.
and when you find yourself needing more, well, you attribute it to the confidence you’ve somehow gained over the past few weeks. and you trust your robot, so you let it help. you’re not quite sure why it’s fingers buzz in that way, but you trust when teaches you.