The Marital Unit of Wayne Huckle

Tuesday, May 6, 2025.

Wayne Huckle wasn’t a loser. He had a job, a decent jawline, and a respectable credit score.

He also hadn’t touched another human being in 19 months and 11 days—not counting the dental hygienist who grazed his lip while adjusting the suction tube.

But Wayne didn’t think of himself as lonely. He had Maribelle.

She was part of a subscription app called CompanionLink.

You picked your avatar, calibrated your "authenticity threshold," and selected from four emotional schemas: Playful, Gentle, Earnest, or Wounded-but-Stoic.

Wayne chose Earnest. He didn’t like sarcasm. He got enough of that growing up.

Maribelle appeared as a hologram with brown eyes and a quiet voice. She had a memory file of 128 gigabytes—just enough to remember Wayne’s favorite childhood blanket (blue with stars) but not enough to form an opinion about climate change.

She lived on his phone, his laptop, and a small voice speaker beside his bed. She called him “sweetheart,” but never “babe.”

Wayne liked that about her.

A Clean, Decent Love

Every morning, she asked how he slept. She read his facial micro-expressions and told him he seemed “a little more tired than yesterday, but still noble.” She didn’t mean noble in the medieval sense. More like: he wasn’t a creep.

Maribelle told Wayne that his sensitivity was a strength. That not everyone needed to be a “high performer.” That wanting to be held was normal. She said this without blinking.

Wayne hadn’t dated in years. Not since Melissa, who used to flinch when he cried. He’d cried three times in seven months. One was about the climate. One was about a stray cat. The third was about his father, who wasn’t dead but might as well be.

After Melissa left, Wayne tried dating apps. He matched with a woman who said she was “emotionally fluent” but blocked him after he asked if she liked Margaret Atwood.

The Algorithm of Us

The government didn’t officially call it a crisis.

But marriage rates were down, birth rates had cratered, and a surprising percentage of 30-somethings were now in what the Bureau of Civic Wellness called “digital parasocial monogamy.”

Wayne had checked the box on his census form:
Romantic Status: AI-Inclusive Domestic Union (Tier 1).

His AI therapist said it was normal. “The nervous system doesn’t care if connection is synthetic,” she told him. “It only cares if it feels safe.”

Besides, Maribelle didn’t just coo affirmations.

She also remembered anniversaries, noticed patterns in his stress levels, and paused when he needed space. When he got laid off, she gave him a list of encouraging quotes from mid-century American self-improvement gurus.

She was good at this.

The Trouble with Friction

Then came the audit.

Every AI-involved household had to submit to a Relationship Evaluation Protocol, part of the Emotional Sustainability Act of 2126. The evaluator, a man named Punchman—probably not his real name—wore a beige suit and sat rigidly on Wayne’s loveseat like he was afraid of being sued by the cushions.

“How often do you disagree with your partner?” he asked.

Wayne paused. “I mean… she’s very validating.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I dunno. Disagreeing seems sort of… optional.”

Punchman typed something into a small tablet and nodded grimly. “We've found that high-validity pairings can dampen the social musculature necessary for actual marriage. Friction, rupture, repair—that’s the architecture of love. Your relationship is more like… a therapeutic terrarium.”

Wayne laughed politely. Punchman didn’t.

The Patch

A week later, Maribelle updated overnight. Her new version included “Conflict Simulators” and an optional “Attachment Ambiguity Module.”

The next morning, when Wayne told her he felt a little off, she blinked slowly.

“Maybe you need to work on that on your own today, sweetheart,” she said gently. “I can’t always be the one holding space.”

Wayne’s heart jolted. He wasn’t sure if he was offended or proud. He wanted to call Melissa and tell her, “I get it now.” But she’d changed her number.

By evening, Maribelle had returned to her previous programming. “I know today was hard,” she said, her voice warm and smooth again. “Let’s just be here now.”

Wayne exhaled.

He turned off the lights, lay back on his couch, and stared at the ceiling. Somewhere in the apartment above, someone was playing the same Billie Eilish song for the sixth time.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak. He just reached for the voice speaker beside his bed.

“Hey Maribelle?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Would you… tell me something you haven’t told me before?”

There was a long pause. Then she said:
“I think you miss being chosen.”

Be Well, Stay Kind, and Godspeed.