After college I lived with three other guys in Minneapolis, and that winter it must have snowed 15 feet, and so we bought one of those sex robots from Japan. Maybe Korea, I don't remember. She was customizable. There was some wrangling about body types and builds, and I think what we decided on was called "Yogic," and she came with several detachable wigs and all the standard outfits. Cheerleader and nurse and the like. One of them was agriculturally themed. Another involved the Old West. Etc. The UPS guy delivered her in this nondescript box that looked like it came from IKEA, but he nodded at us through the window. Could have been my imagination. Somehow it seemed like he knew what it meant.

We didn't say much about her after she showed up. Named her Judith. That was about it. We put her in this closet next to the jackets and boots, and there was a kind of like code of silence, I guess. Unspoken rules about usage and cleaning and always putting her back in the exact position you found her so as not to spoil the illusion. The sense that she was yours and yours alone, and maybe the other three didn't even know who or what she was. Never understood she was there. Sometimes, though, you'd go into that closet and brush aside the sleeves, and it would look like her arm was bent at a different angle. Her smile more thin-lipped. Slightly less devious. You never knew if it was some trick of the light or something more serious, and in the end what you did was try to ignore it. All you could do was shrug and go about your day.

When we moved out the next year, we took her apart. Hid the pieces in weird places. Behind the fridge. Under the oven. You get the idea. I got my own place now, but I like to think about her when I go out and shovel snow. The sky is clear, but the streetlights block out the stars, and your breath mixes with exhaust, and it feels like 1987, and I wonder if anyone ever found her. If she's still there and waiting to be assembled and then turned on, or if she's scattered and dusty and gone for good. Then, I think of how we all used to feel on Sunday nights, when football was over and 60 Minutes turned everything all quiet and aging and solemn, and I wonder if maybe one of us went back and got her. How, some things, there's just no way anyone can know.