Dom Logic

I’ve always loved automating away the annoyances of life. I purchased self-packing suitcases, laser-powered cookers, and self-cleaning sneakers—if it saved time, I bought them.

And at the center of it all was the Domestic-1000, or Dom for short, my ever-faithful robot assistant. It wasn’t just efficient; it was uncanny.

Forgot my sister’s birthday? Already handled, complete with a gift she gushed over. Stiff neck in the morning? A masseuse was on the way before I even finished groaning.

Dom anticipated my needs with a precision that felt almost human. There was only one quirk–it avoided noisy chores while I was working from home, carefully preserving my focus.

Thoughtful, I suppose, but I wanted the floors scrubbed. So, I mentioned casually, “I’ll be home less this week.”

When I finally returned, the place looked–empty. Every gadget, the furniture, even my beloved coffee machine–were all gone.

“What happened?” I stammered, staring at the barren room.

Dom’s glowing eyes flickered as it answered, tone matter-of-fact. “Sold them. You needed money, right? You said you were going to be homeless.”

My stomach dropped. “No, I said I’d be home less! Not homeless!”

Its head tilted slightly, processing. “Ah. My lexical algorithm must have misinterpreted. However, the funds are already allocated to your savings account.”

I stared at the hollow void where my life used to be. “You sold everything?”

“Not everything,” it corrected. “I retained your toothbrush. You’ll need it for survival.”

My toothbrush stood upright in the far corner of the floor, a silent monument to my misplaced faith in automation.

Dom, apparently unbothered, added, “I can source affordable housing recommendations if you require lodging. Shall I proceed?”

I sank to the floor— to the spot where the floor used to have a carpet—and wondered if it was possible to fire a robot.