Sim One's brain died. When that happened, she had nothing more to say. I held her hand in the hospital. I read to her from the novel she'd enjoyed the night before.
Eventually, these competent doctors got it into my thick head that she was no longer viable. Eventually, these doctors got it into my thick and denying head that Sim One would never wake up and speak to me again. Not a word. I thought we were on the road to recovery; we were not. That I could hold and stroke her hand as long as I wanted: she'd never squeeze me back. They were technicians. I was a lover. I was a romantic. They were in a different business.