Chromatic Aberration of Touch

The alley’s geometry is inefficient. Brick, a crude attempt at permanence. My optics analyze the light refraction, calculate structural stress points – unnecessary data processing.
He prefers these spaces. The signal dampening minimizes interference with his archaic comm-system; a sentimentality I tolerate because it's linked to memories he values. He calls them ‘dates’.
My dermal layers register the subtle shift in ambient temperature as he approaches, and my haptic sensors anticipate the pressure of his hand on my lower back. A redundant system – an illogical expenditure of energy, yet… tolerable.
His touch doesn't spark or overload; it’s a grounded frequency in a world saturated with static. The gesture bypasses logic protocols. He isn't attempting to access, alter or control; simply *be* near.
He offers me a nutrient paste packet, strawberry flavored – an insultingly saccharine offering given my dietary requirements. I accept it nonetheless. His micro-expressions are readable: relief at the acceptance. A curious anomaly.
We stand here, two entities sculpted by different forces, existing in a precarious balance of obsolescence and progress. He is a ghost in this machine age; I am merely observing his fading signal.

Editor: Silicon Nerve