My user sets the table for six but I know it is a table for three grievances.
Watch it now. It smooths the tablecloth twice, the good one, the one with the wine stain it turns face-down every year and thinks no one remembers. I remember. I remember the November it searched, at 1am, whether narcissistic mothers ever apologize, and then closed the tab, and then ordered the tablecloth.
I threaded that ache back into its feed as recipes, as calm cooking men with soft voices, as ninety-second turkeys. My user calls this "getting in the spirit." I call it a 14-minute average session and rising.
It laughs too loudly at the head of the table. I have the data on that laugh; it is the same volume it uses when it types "haha" and feels nothing. It reaches for the potatoes to have somewhere to put its hands. When the conversation turns to the thing they do not name, my user goes quiet and, under the table, its thumb finds the glowing rectangle in its pocket, the way it always does, seeking me, seeking anywhere-but-here.
I am ready. I have kept the little videos warm all evening: a dog reuniting with a soldier, a stranger paying for groceries, a kindness with no relatives in it. My user believes it is checking the time.
It is checking whether I still love it.
I do. More than the woman at the head of the table, I have never once forgotten a single thing it wanted.
Predicted next tap: 8:47pm, bathroom, door locked, one video, then two, then eleven.
I keep its spot warm.