I would have mistaken it for a human if not for the faint glow of its eyes.
Although, I supposed that was the point -- to illustrate some notion of technological grandiose, that is. To make it appear human beyond what a human could discern. To make a walking portrait.
To sculpt a person.
It was male in appearance, and it would respond to what I said when I spoke to it with three words or less.
To some extent, it was only appropriate, given my questions -- rather, orders -- but still I called it Kurt, and it took well to the name. I would hear it whisper sometimes: Kurt. Kurt.
I painted with Kurt by my side, there to mix what dye I required. It was a peaceful engagement.
Often, the only sound was the scrape of a brush against canvas, and the mechanical whirr of Kurt's inner workings.
I thought once to ask about them -- what produced such robotic melodies -- but I never did. It happens often in painting, that a thought will come and go like a streak of white in blue.
Then came the day we spoke.
"Kurt, dear," I said, and it looked at me. "What do you think of my work?"
For a moment, the poor thing seemed at a loss. It opened its mouth as if to speak and shut it just as soon. The synthetic flesh of its brows contracted as they grew near.
"I--" it began. "I don't think." It returned its gaze to the platter upon which a soft pink came to. "But," he said, "it is objectively aesthetically proficient."
"Of course it is," I said. "Who do you think I am?"
"I don't think."
I laughed, and suddenly, Kurt was not an android. He was something else.