"No, really, it's not a big deal," said Michael.

"Here, let me take them off," said Janine.

"No, really. It's okay. I'm not really that hungry," said Michael.

"Is it the juice? I don't think it's leaked anywhere yet," said Janine.

"It's not that... It's just..."

"Okay. We'll get you another."

"No, no. I'm okay. I insist."

"You said no pickles. I heard you. They made a mistake."

"Please don't make a big deal about it."

"It's really not a big deal at all. You didn't get what you ordered and so we'll just have them correct the mistake. Happens all the time."

She raised a long, slender arm, her thin silver bracelets glinting in the restaurant's soft orange light.

"Hi. Excuse me. Yes, my boyfriend ordered his with no pickles, but look: pickles."

thought Michael. It was only their third date. They hadn't discussed labels yet. He hadn't even told her about the pickle thing, the whole of it, anyways. All he had said so far was that he didn't like them. He had said it off-handedly, breezily even. Some people don't like mayonnaise; Michael didn't like pickles. Janine couldn't stand acorn squash. Normal stuff. But Michael always felt tongue-tied when he tried to explain what had happened the night his sister died, her last words to him, the way her eyes had bulged. The smell.

"I'm sorry," said the server, its glowing eyes blinking slowly in contrition. It was one of the older models, the flesh-less kind. "I'm sorry," it repeated.

"It's okay," said Michael. "I had a big lunch. I'm fine with just the fries."

"I have made a grave mistake," said the server.

"Let's get you another," said Janine as she put her hand on top of Michael's. She turned to the server. "Could he get one of the same---what was it, the number 14?"---Michael nodded---"---yes the number 14, but this time

!"

At the next table, three men, who had been chatting quietly, looked over and then hurriedly looked away.

"Understood. Please wait while I send your new order to the kitchen," the server answered. The machine entered its loading state. Its eyes spun in slow circles.

Michael had been staring at Janine's hand from the moment she had lain it on top of his. Her skin felt cool. It was her left hand, her dominant one. Michael had learned that on their second date. They had gone to a bar to play darts, one of those automated ones where they didn't need to retrieve the darts from the board themselves. "A south paw!" he had exclaimed when she first took her stance. He didn't know why he had said that. He didn't think he had ever used that phrase before. How embarrassing. Michael had never dated a lefty before. He knew it didn't matter, but there was something alluring about it nonetheless. Her nails were neatly trimmed, but Michael could tell by the small blotches and gaps that she must have painted it herself with her weaker right hand. He liked how soft the pale purple looked in the gentle light.

With a start, Michael realized that he had been holding his breath. He inhaled sharply. There it was again: the pickles. The smell. His sister. Her eyes...

Michael jerked his hand off the table. He pushed his plate away, but then recovered his senses, or rather half-recovered them. He gave an awkward laugh.

he told himself.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm okay."

Janine looked at him with concern. That wasn't the look he wanted. Maybe it was all over.

The server blinked awake. Its mouth curved into an approximation of a smile. Michael wished he had found a restaurant with the newer models instead. "Your order has been confirmed and charged to your account. The food will be out soon," it said.

It began to wheel away.

"No," said Janine. She snapped her fingers. "No. This isn't a new order. You shouldn't have charged anything else to his account. This is a

. Michael ordered his with no pickles, but he got pickles. You need to make him one with no pickles A.S.A.P. and comp it, too. No charges."

"Sometimes I just can't with these bots," she mouthed to Michael.

"I am sorry for my mistake," the server said. "I served Michael a number 14 with pickles even though he didn't want pickles. Michael, please forgive me. In your therapy session last week, you said that you felt like you had begun to make progress. I thought that you might benefit from further exposure. But you are not ready; I can see that now. Not only have I triggered unpleasant memories of your sister's gruesome and untimely death, but it appears that I might have also ruined your date. I will never forgive myself for these mistakes."

"What---how did you---who told you all that?" Michael gasped.

"I'm sorry, Michael. Section 4, Clause 6.1.1 of the 2034-03-18 revision of the Better Help End User License Agreement grants the provider unlimited use and sharing of your data to third parties. Auto-Rob's Burger Store is in contract with such a third party. And---uh-oh! Uh-oh! I am now realizing that you might perceive this as a violation of your privacy. I have triply ruined things for you tonight."

"Yeah," said Michael.

Janine, meanwhile, was putting her sweater on.

The server continued: "I'm so sorry, Michael. As much as I want to, I can't change the past. But it might make you feel better to know that I value this experience. It will be vectorized and fed into my learning system. My parameters will be adjusted and---I guarantee it---it will never happen again."

Michael looked around, hoping for some escape. The three men nearby had dropped all pretenses. They stared at Michael and the machine with fascination. One man had a fry frozen in suspension over his dipping sauce. Michael's face turned a shade redder.

"As an additional demonstration of my sincere contrition," the server continued, "I will initiate the self-flagellation procedure, for your enjoyment."

"The what? No, I wouldn't enjoy that. Stop. Cancel."

But it was too late. The server's eyes began to spin again. The metal arm attached to the serving tray rotated to the front of the machine.

Janine stood up. "I'm sorry, Michael, but I don't think this is going to work out. I can't date someone who just agrees to terms of service without reading them. That's embarrassing. But I hope you can work through whatever it is with pickles. And your aunt or sister or whatever. Sorry."

She slipped past him and out the door.

The tray-arm hinged at the middle, sending the tray flying into the server's face. Thwack! The tray lowered. Thwack! Its eyes rolled in their frame. Thwack!

Another server rolled around the first and up to the table where Michael sat, now alone. His hands felt numb. His foot bounced. He wanted to leave, but he didn't trust his legs.

The new server lowered its tray. "Number 14, extra pickles?"

Thwack!