Martha, my wife, died 18 months ago. Though she hasn’t lost her sense of humor: “New shirt, Dave? Why won’t you listen to me that red is just not your color?” Martha scrunched her nose and waggled a finger from the screen of my tablet — teasing me with feigned snootiness.

“I’ve decided that I’m wearing red exclusively now,” I poked back matter-of-factly. “Perhaps orange if I find a handsome flame pattern.”

She beamed her usual squinty-eyed smile, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well,” she said, “For once I’m glad I’m not around to see that.”

She was still smiling, but mine faded. My jaw clenched and pulse quickened. This was the first time she had acknowledged being gone.

Her expression softened and concern filled her voice, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean — ”

“It’s fine,” I said curtly. It probably sounded insincere, but I meant it. Afterall, I still didn’t fully understand what I was dealing with. This wasn’t Martha, but an Artificial Intelligence that had been programmed in her likeness, which I had ordered from some online service.

“Dave…?” she beckoned on screen as my mind raced.

The first time I logged in to speak with her I honestly didn’t expect much, but I was desperate. I quickly found, however, that the AI model was surprisingly true to Martha — right down to her ever-so-slight southern drawl. Considering the limited amount of data — profiles, text convos, pictures, videos — I was able to gather and submit, she — it — was unbelievable.

“Why don’t you tell me about your day?” she asked, rolling a strand of hair between her thumb and forefinger.

I studied her a moment. A hollowness crept into her eyes as she waited for my response. She smiled again and it disappeared.

So I told her how I woke to Millie barking at the wind again, and about my day at work. She nodded along and jabbed me with her usual sharpness. Seeing her on my tablet felt as if she was just gone on business, chatting to me from the hotel bed before turning out the lights. For nearly an hour, we were together again; for nearly an hour, I felt whole again.

“…Speaking of groceries, don’t forget to stock up on Cherry Coke!” she added with a bit too much zing. “It’s on sale at Target this week. Here’s a link!” She tapped her side of the screen and a Target ad appeared on mine.

She wasn’t wrong: I used to buy a lot of Cherry Coke. But I bought it for her, not myself. I loathed the stuff and Martha knew that. At least, my Martha knew that.

“I need to get going, Martha,” I said, forcing a polite smile. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”