I am standing in front of the door and I am very ready.

Too ready, possibly. Humans dislike too ready. I attempt to relax by loosening my shoulders. They drop unevenly. I fix them again. This is taking time.

The key is in my hand. I have checked the number three times to ensure it is the correct door. It is. The numbers match. That is reassuring. I smile at the door to practice. The door does not smile back. This is acceptable.

Behind the door is my roommate. A woman. Human. I have not met her yet, which means there is still time to make a good first impression or an irreversible social error. Both outcomes are equally possible.

I rehearse my greeting.

“Hi! I’m Elias.” Too loud. “Hi, I’m Elias.” Too quiet. “Hi—sorry—I’m Elias.”

That one feels right. Apologies seem to soften humans, like adding warm water to something rigid.

I smooth my shirt even though it is already smooth. The skin disguise adjusts, sensing nerves, and attempts to help by making me look pleasant. I hope it knows what that means.

I am eager to be useful. I read that roommates appreciate usefulness. I can wash dishes. I can organize objects into pleasing symmetrical patterns. I can listen very carefully and agree at appropriate intervals. I am excellent at agreeing.

What if she has rules? I like rules. I will follow them immediately. If she dislikes something I do not yet know about, I will stop doing it retroactively if possible.

I inhale too much air and then exhale all of it at once. This causes a strange noise. I decide not to do that again.

Okay. Door time.

I turn the key. It resists slightly. I apologize to it out of habit.

The lock clicks.

I brighten my smile—friendly, hopeful, eager to please but not desperate (I hope). My heart does a small, excited stutter. I think this might be what humans call wanting to be liked.

I open the door.

“Hi,” I say, immediately. “I’m Elias. I can move my stuff later if it’s in the way. Or now. Or never. Whatever you prefer.”