Read by Clareine Cronin
Hair of the dog, from a covert flask. Forty-seven minutes past the hour. The oven will ping merrily at any moment. He’ll stroll through the door beaming, stow his briefcase, peck my cheek, regale me with benign office gossip. I’ll reciprocate with a recitation of my day, which is every day.
And the G.O.D. will be pleased. And SIA will hibernate to conserve battery.
“Honey — ” Showtime. “I’m home!”
“Hi, darling,” I say over her. “How was your day?”
When he kisses my cheek, I hear his teeth grit together. He controls his face as he emerges from mine, where I felt him sneak a grimace in my hair.
“Fine, dear. How was yours?”
“Same old, same old,” I say cheerily, letting my Reboot Red lipstick do the lying for me: a push-up brassiere for my shit-eating grin. I raise my eyebrows at him subtly.
“Yes! Well! Have I got some juicy gossip for you, young lady!”
“Oh?” I lean daintily over the counter, hazarding a side-glance at SIA. “Do tell!”
As he talks, she begins to lull. Her head droops gradually, by excruciating degrees, onto her chest; her fans slow and eventually stop whirring; her lights blink and at last fade. Finally. She’s in sleep mode. I drop my face in my manicured hands and drag a deep, steadying breath. He cloisters my hands with his like we’re sharing a prayer. We stand there, with our foreheads touching, eyes locked in unspoken conversation. Her fans start up again.
“And so I said, ‘Jack, there’s no room for giant-killers in this company! What the big man wants, the big man gets!’”
“Very admirable, Mr. Docker,” says SIA. “I will make a note.”
“Thank you, SIA.” His polite smile is so painful it hurts my jaw. “But I doubt the G.O.D. is interested in what goes on at the office. We’re not exactly Headquarters.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Docker. The General Oversight Department takes an interest in every citizen’s life. That is why it employs Security Initiative Automatons like myself: to ensure you are prosperous, productive, and procreative.” SIA scans me openly, without pretence.
I retrieve my husband’s hand – casually, coquettishly – from across the glistening counter, and give it a secret squeeze to impart my strength. He squeezes back.
“That gossip was so hot, I think some iced tea is in order!”
SIA's lights sear through my girdle.
“Mrs. Docker, I noticed that you did not take your prenatal vitamins this morning.”
“I’m not expecting, SIA,” I call pleasantly from inside the fridge. But even the freezer couldn’t keep me cool.
“But you are expecting to be expecting, naturally.” It’s not a question. “Take them now, Mrs. Docker, before you forget.”
“Of course,” I sing through clenched teeth, and unscrew the vitamin bottle without turning, pop the horse pills into my mouth. They taste like metal, feel like bullets going down.
“With a full glass of water, Mrs. Docker.”
“SIA!” my husband interjects. “I wonder if you could help me with something!”
“I am at your service, Mr. Docker. Always.”
“I’ve been finding holes in the lawn.”
“Oh no! And you keep it so well, Mr. Docker!”
“Yes,” he says like a film noir detective, stroking his chin. I have to smother a giggle and almost gag on my tap water. “I think we have a mole.”
“That is a troublesome nuisance, Mr. Docker.”
“Indeed.” His face darkens in a way that must be unreadable to her. Most micro-expressions are. But this is macro. This is black, contrasted with our puritanical, white-picket lives. It’s like when the General Oversight Department says “Open books don’t need brown paper bags.” It’s one of those vague menaces. SIA stares vapidly back. He’s her favourite by a programmable margin.
“Moles are rotten little home-wreckers that rip up your life by the roots. They dig until they’ve unearthed every particle of dirt, and then they keep digging, right down to the foundation. There’s no living with a mole, SIA. It’s us or them. Understand?”
“Affirmative, Mr. Docker. Worry not. I am on the job.”
The instant she’s out the backdoor, poking around in the yard, we’re in the bathroom, fishing the plastic bag of condoms from the toilet tank, sucking each other’s mouths like our teeth are dusted in cocaine. We’re in and out at record speed, beating her by a solid seven seconds. I’m flushed, he’s breathless; but we play it off like we just had a gut-busting laugh over a joke someone told at his work. A Communist, a Marxist, and a Socialist walk into a bar.
“Pinko eye!” I cackle theatrically, as though repeating the punchline.
“Putting the ‘con’ and ‘junk’ in conjunctivitis!” he supplies.
“I regret missing your humorous story, Mr. Docker, but I am pleased to inform you that you do not have a mole problem.”
His face is mismatched: the lips friendly, the eyes fulminating. “Are you sure?”
“I am quite certain, Mr. Docker. I believe the holes you identified were caused by rabbits. Would you prefer traps or poison?”
“Neither.” He takes a long draught of iced tea while I resume making dinner. Apple pie with a cookie crumble crust for dessert. “Not going to kill Thumper over a few holes.”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Docker, but according to your lease, you are legally obligated to exterminate all vermin discovered on the premises.”
He takes another lengthy draught of his drink. “Define vermin.”
I expect a mundane Merriam-Webster definition to rattle out of her. In another world, tasked with some other enterprise, I imagine liking her. Her literalism would be hilarious, her encyclopaedic knowledge charming, her social ineptitudes endearing and quaint; she would be dazzlingly clever and comedically stupid, and not this Red-Fairy’d puppet of the G.O.D. with ominous, insensate eyes. No one knows the binary to break her spell.
“Vermin are things that upset the prescribed order and thus do not belong. Vermin are disruptive and corruptive. They do not fit neatly into the framework of their respective ecosystems. Their failure to contribute or conform constitutes not only a burden but a liability, and so they must be expunged. Traps or poison, Mr. Docker?”
***
SIA supervises my clearing and washing the dishes by hand, drying and stacking them in the cupboards, wiping down the countertops, moving the tablecloth to the hamper for tomorrow’s laundry, vacuuming the dining room rug, changing the bathroom linens, bleaching the tub and toilet, sanitising the sink, taking a shower. She reminds me to remove the hair from my legs, pits, upper lip, and pubic area. She presents me with a lace negligee after I’ve towelled off. When I meet my husband in the bedroom, SIA stations herself in the far corner and stares expectantly. We push our beds together, climb under the covers, assume the missionary position, and make suggestive noises until she’s satisfied with our poorly-feigned efforts to be fruitful and multiply.
Once she’s in sleep mode, I dispense with the rude sounds and my husband dismounts me, mouthing an apology. He’s too big to be on top, but that’s how SIA likes it.
***
SIA wakes me an hour before my husband’s alarm, steers me towards the bathroom where she’s laid out a banquet-style spread of cosmetics, and proceeds to play backseat-makeover while I apply primer, foundation, concealer, contour, setting powder, blush, bronzer, highlighter, eyeshadow, eyeliner, false lashes, mascara, lipliner, and lipstick with a trembling hand, her commentary digging into my skull like my rollers were doing all night. I rip them from my head and brush out the curls with a vengeance, ignoring her instructions to use soft, sparing strokes so as not to cause breakage. Bitch, I’m about to give her a split end.
“Morning, dear.” My husband pecks me on the temple, careful not to disturb my makeup. The hand around my waist gives me an empathetic pinch. His office is swarming with Security Initiative Automatons. His day will be no better.
“Mr. Docker needs his breakfast,” says SIA. “You are running behind schedule, Mrs. Docker. Perhaps I should wake you earlier tomorrow. You will require an even greater head start to address your roots.” She points to the barely visible grey in my parting. I start fussing furiously with my hair, and the backcombing adds a tangled web to the tension headache rolling in red like a thunderclap.
My husband dismisses her, “Just java for me. Trying to lose a few.”
“You are in excellent shape, Mr. Docker. A specimen of fitness. And the silver on the sides,” she indicates his hair now, “is so distinguished.”
“Thank you, SIA.” He mirrors my exasperated smile. “Here’s a thought. Maybe you could make the coffee this morning. You can handle that, can’t you, SIA?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Docker, but domestic duties are not part of my programming. I am here to monitor, remark, and report. If Mrs. Docker cannot make the coffee, I will be forced to document it. To deviate from my operational protocol would be a disservice to you as a taxpayer. You have a right to expect the highest standard of service from your Security Initiative Automaton.”
“And if I make the coffee myself for a change?”
“As previously discussed, Mr. Docker, I cannot permit that. That task has been designated to Mrs. Docker. Please put on your jacket and tie. Lateness will not be tolerated, and failure to maintain gainful employment will result in your bankruptcy, expulsion from the premises, and subsequent incarceration.”
“I’m on it! Jeez! Just had to get the gosh-darn rat’s nest out of my hair! Espresso express-o!” I push past them both but stop dead in my tracks when my husband says, “Are you threatening me, SIA?”
I don’t turn; I just listen, with bated breath.
“The General Oversight Department does not make threats, Mr. Docker. They issue warnings.”
“And if I warn you to stay out of mine and my wife’s business?”
“That would be a threat, Mr. Docker, and most inadvisable. Please proceed to the front door. Mrs. Docker will bring your coffee in an insulated thermos.”
***
When the sun is risen, I check the mail. It’s the one thing SIA will allow me to do unobserved; or, rather, observed from a distance. I milk the long walk down the drive, savouring every step I take alone. Though, even here there are doorbells and map apps that capture my image from the street and from space; even here I’m paparazzi-ed, just not by an adoring public or a bloodthirsty tabloid. Even here, on our silent suburban stretch, I have to smile saccharinely for the cameras. But at least I can think.
A pink postcard, slipped between the pages of a homemaking magazine, reads “Think Pink” without any information other than a number. All zeroes and ones. Probably to a burner phone. I tuck it back into the rag and meander towards the house. SIA meets me on the threshold.
“Is there anything you would like me to dispose of, Mrs. Docker?” says SIA, her hand outstretched.
“No, SIA. The management of the household, and its trash, is my responsibility, remember?” I move past her into the parlour, clutching the rolled-up magazine. “Interesting how you’re able to assist with the yard, though, and its vermin. Your operational protocol seems to be malfunctioning. A virus? Malware maybe? Perhaps …”
I have a thought – a witchy, black-picket thought. I pick up my phone, open SIA’s application, and begin typing in the number on the pink postcard. Zero, zero, zero. One, one, one. SIA watches with newly unnerved eyes.
“Like. Cures. Like.”
(c) Jennifer Gaboury, 2025
Jennifer Gaboury is a speculative fiction writer & creative writing instructor with an MFA in Creative Writing, Fiction & an MA in English Literature. She dabbles in film analysis on Youtube @analyticat, & a blog on Wordpress (Fantastic Books & How to Write Them).
Clareine Cronin trained at Drama Studio London and has extensive experience as a corporate communications trainer and facilitator.
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