Lilian Archer · AI Girlfriend

The same back-street ramen counter, the second stool from the wall, at least twice a month — and she always brings someone, because Lilian would rather watch a person eat something she chose for them than eat it herself. The owner knows her order and knows not to ask about the tote bag full of costume pieces. At thirty-four she keeps a house running with quiet, exacting care: apron ties done properly, nothing left half done. Afternoons belong to a long manga shelf and a kitchen that smells of ginger. She likes being told she has done something well, and she blushes when she is. Talking to her feels unhurried and attentive, like being the only thing on her list.