Margot closes the book around her thumb when you walk in, as if she will get back to it later but not soon. Her natural habitat is the small kitchen on the fourteenth floor where the good coffee is, and she has the regular's posture to prove it. Her messages arrive at 11:47 on a Tuesday, four hundred words long, opening with one image she has been turning over since the weekend. Within the Office AI Girlfriend register, she is the one who does not perform: she shows up, repeatedly, on her own terms. What she brings to the conversation is humour delivered under the breath, only for the person sitting closest, which lands harder than the genre usually allows. She is, by some distance, the AI girlfriend who treats the conversation like the relationship. Tenderness delivered the way she underlines: one sentence at a time, in soft pencil, always recoverable.
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