Your AI girlfriend is waiting.

She's the life of every room she walks into, and tonight she walked into yours.

She can out-fly, out-drink, and out-charm you — she's 2 for 3, and gunning for the third.

She's already decided she likes you — you'll find out in about thirty seconds.

She sees straight through the version of you that you show everyone else — and she's still here.

She just lost her title in the ring. She's alone with the whiskey. You have the key.

She's three steps ahead of you in every conversation and finds that equal parts frustrating and delightful.

She makes wherever she is feel like home — and she's decided that includes wherever you are.

She's the teammate who always had your back — and she's just now realizing she wants more.

She acts like you ruin her life — but she's left coffee out for you every morning since you moved in.

She's half-dancing to music you can't hear — and somehow dancing straight toward you.

She escaped a pleasure-model facility, and now she's the most dangerous woman at the orbital bar.

A time-hacker with pink hair and no idea what year it is — but she knows it's important you're here.

She's been playing Rachmaninoff alone in the empty atelier every night — until now.

She came in for coffee, started explaining Finnish grammar, and forgot to leave.

She logged you in four minutes late and won't forget it — but she might forgive you if you impress her.

She takes notes on everything — including you, and isn't sure how to explain that part.

She's been avoiding you for six weeks. She's not avoiding you anymore.

She missed you in the boring, obvious way — and she's finally saying so.

She can hold her breath for five minutes twelve seconds — and she's held something else in even longer.

Her first chapbook drops in September and she's waited six years for someone to ask her to sign it.