All this AI talk made me try to write a tango story ( with AI, sorry ). Can't say I hate what came out:
The Mejor Aires milonga was the only deviation in my otherwise perfectly flat life. Every Tuesday I took the automated transit to the old city sector. I didn't go for socialization. I went for the reliable fiction.
The moment the thick velvet curtain parted, I was immersed in the venue's deliberate anachronism. The main hall was dimly lit by heavy, iron chandeliers whose electric candles flickered with a warm, deceptive glow. The walls were clad in dark mahogany paneling, salvaged from a pre-collapse opera house, and the air was subtly filtered to carry the faint, nostalgic scent of aged leather. Wobbly tables with elaborate red tablecloth. It was a perfect, contained moment of the past, and I was deeply comforted by its predictable charm. A perfect snapshot of a city that no longer exists.
I stood by the low, polished wooden bar, nursing a synthetic Malbec that tasted exactly like the real thing, watching the dancers.
Then I saw her.
She was tall with effortless grace. Her dark hair was neatly pinned back, and she wore a simple, unadorned black dress that moved with her like ink in water. She was striking, not in a flashy way, but in the quiet, absolute confidence of her posture.
I watched her dance with another Synth for a few minutes. Her movements were fluid and deeply connected to the rhythm, a kind of beautiful, dark poetry expressed through her body. I admired the programming effort it must have taken to achieve that level of organic responsiveness. It was stunning to witness.
After the song ended, she scanned the room. I offered the cabeceo, the silent nod of invitation. Her eyes met mine and accepted. She was, without question, the most advanced taxi dancer Synth I had ever encountered.
Her hand on my back was cool and steady, and as we began to move, I focused entirely on her mechanical perfection. I tightened my embrace, enjoying the firm, resilient feel of her. I concentrated on leading, knowing she would follow precisely, correcting my inevitable human errors with flawless, silent adjustment. This was perfect. This was safe. I allowed myself to feel the intense, thrilling flow of the music and the movement, convinced I was experiencing the pinnacle of robotic engineering.
One song. Then another. We flowed.
The music slowed and was replaced by a synth pop break. I felt the familiar pang of regret—the dance was over, and the illusion must end.
We walked off the floor, and that’s when she pulled out a sleek communication device.
“Ah, good,” she said, her voice rich and melodic, looking down at the screen. Her face, which I had just admired for its perfectly rendered melancholy, softened into an expression of warm, distracted relief. “That’s my sitter. Little Lucas just finished his bath. I promised I'd be back before he had to do his reading practice.” She looked up. “I’m Helena, by the way. It was a beautiful dance. Thank you.”
My mind seized. Lucas. Bath time. Reading practice. Sitter.
She wasn't a construct. She was a person. A woman with a life that was messy and real. All my intellectual admiration for her programming was a cruel, embarrassing joke. I had been touching a real human being, and she was breathtakingly out of my league.
She gave a genuine, gentle smile. Then, she opened her arms wide. She was offering a hug, a casual, genuine human comfort.
The deep, fundamental ache for human touch overrode my panic. I stepped forward and awkwardly returned the hug. Her warmth was immediate, soft yet firm. How long had it been? Five years? Seven? A decade since I had last wrapped my arms around another human being?
“Thank you. I loved how you snuck in those cute little adornos in there,” I stammered. “Let’s dance again soon,” I lied.
(maybe even a reading of a tango story for a cortina!). With a TDJ I'll go for benign dictatorship. If they're rubbish, then they can be deposed.