Hollow

By Wendy Cooper

I sit at the kitchen table, careful not to touch the cold metal frame sitting next to me. The whir of his breathing is creepy.

He speaks with my husband’s voice, but the words are flat and monotone. His movements are stiff. He avoids my gaze, his eyes fixed elsewhere, thinking thoughts I can’t read. We eat in silence.

Our hands accidentally touch, like an ice shard snapping and piercing my body.

I wonder if I made the right choice, recreating him for company. To fill the emptiness.

I guess the salesman was right: he’s an exact replica of my husband.