My Life Among the Borg

The Living Book whose name was Lucy said books were her life.

Lucy the Living Book arrived dressed like a Borg.

You saw the notice about the new program.

You saw the Borg.

You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack.

The new program at the library was called “Living Books,” inviting patrons to meet with volunteers and “read them” (or be read to, by them) for an hour.

“I’m a science fiction novel” Lucy explained. The patrons were put off by the tubes.

The librarian suggested a different genre might help. Perhaps autobiography.

Lucy said books were her life.

At the end of the reading session you heard one of the librarians tell Lucy that readers might be more interested in the living aspect of her book. The lived life.

Hers.

The Living Book whose name was Lucy said books were her life. Hers.

Her first reader/listener had left after five minutes. Her second after two. Lucy’s tubes spewed something, some guy said.

The Living Book whose name was Lucy said books were her life.

You’d broken up again and spent your evening eating microwaved leftovers and fiddling around until it was too late to go to the lecture on the invention of the zipper.

You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack.

Your tubes spew something, her lovers had said. No, they hadn’t. But they might as well have.

Propose a different genre then. Perhaps autobiography. You heard Lucy say the librarian was a crafty one.

You said alone at night, “Crafty one.” You booked your calendar with lectures movies dinner hikes with friends.

That lecture too. The one about the history of the zipper.

Lucy had gathered up her tubes and shuffled away. You poured more wine. The librarian proposed a different genre then. One lover had said zip it. No, he hadn’t. But he might as well have.

At home you had books blotched with wine.

When the time came you usually bowed out and stayed home alone to watch TV with wine fall asleep and then wake in the middle of the night to read until sunrise.

Lucy just gathered up her Borg tubes and left.

That night and morning were no different. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. You were alone with your book. The book was the thing. The Living Book was a person imitating a thing. Along with your last lover. A thing like a tube, spewing something.

You didn’t believe it. They were just empty tubes.

You poured more wine. The man you had just broken up with said you treated him like a thing. You accused him of the same. You pressed it flat and felt the binding crack.

Before this man was another man who said you treated him like a thing. You did. It was true. And you didn’t think he treated you like a thing. He was just boring. They said Lucy the Borg Book was boring like a thing. Along with your last lover. Lucy said books were her life. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack.

The men both bored you and said you treated them like a thing and you thought only one of them treated you like a thing. Your last lover was a person imitating a thing when he was with you. He treated himself like a thing. Was the thing. You treated him like a person, but not as well as some of your favorite books.

Another thing, both said. And others said: you had no sense of humor. You pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. But you didn’t think he treated you like a thing. They said Lucy the Borg Book was boring like a thing. You thought she was pretty funny. You were too serious. You took things the wrong way. You’d broken up again and spent your evening eating microwaved leftovers and fiddling around until it was too late to go to the lecture on the invention of the zipper. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack.

You poured more wine. Lucy had gathered up her tubes and shuffled away. You poured more wine. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. When the time came you usually bowed out and stayed home alone to watch TV with wine fall asleep and then wake in the middle of the night to read until sunrise.

That night and morning were no different. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. You were alone with your book. The book was the thing. The Living Book was a person imitating a thing.

You saw the notice. Your head was splitting. You headed for the library.

At the library you reserved the next hour with Lucy. She was late. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. When she arrived she was wearing jeans and a hoodie.

Where are your tubes, you asked.

She said, “I’m not a book. I’m a person playing a book. The book of me.”

You got up to leave and Lucy the Living Book of Lucy looked bereaved. It was her Borg face. She had Resting Borg Face.

Bereaved for her own dead self.

Yikes. You hightailed it out of there, went looking for an objectifying lover. Nah. Boring. Another lecture on The History of the Zipper? Nah. Boring. Open and shut.

That night you opened your book and pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. You were alone with your book. The book was the thing. The Living Book was a person imitating a thing. You poured more wine.

You thought she was pretty funny. You were too serious. You took things the wrong way.

You said alone at night, “Crafty one.”

You poured more wine. You opened your book pressed it flat and felt the binding crack. When the time came you’d watch TV with wine fall asleep and then wake in the middle of the night to read until sunrise.

You booked your calendar for another visit to the library.