by barry charman
The robots kept their rendezvous, and held hands beneath the bridge. This wasn't supposed to happen, they knew, but only the moon could see them, and it wouldn't tell.
They couldn't kiss, so didn't try, they simply met when they could, and hoped for upgrades that never came. They didn't try to make sense of their love, there wasn't enough data.
Sometimes it rained, and the sound drummed against their sides. Sometimes they met in the day, and the sun warmed them as stray dogs slept nearby.
They crept away when they could, their duties rushed, always making time for the bridge, for that moment of unfeeling, and yet sought-for, contact.
They picked the bridge because it was quiet, and they realized they sought solitude in what they shared. Initially, they had interacted simply to exchange ideas and reflections, yet over time they had come to employ increasingly nuanced calibrations for these encounters. These were unexpectedly complicated, and yet strangely satisfying.
Eventually, they found it was not necessary to share observations, only time.