“The profile of good sangria,” she says. “Your taste is good and you taste excellent.” I exhale. “We’re far from done.” “Yes, I can tell, this is still hard—” While I may be no judge of AIs, I am a good judge of women. So I am confident when I yank her up by the hair, close one hand around her throat, and growl, “You do like it rough, don’t you.” Her eyelashes beat rapidly. Part black, part gold. Subtly dichroic. “This you call rough, Detective?” I use her neck as a handhold to drag her to her feet and fling her onto the bed: enough force to knock the wind out of her, if she was a
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