A few hours later, I peeked out of my sandbox to make sure Maggie wasn’t lurking in the hall somewhere. Thankfully, there was no sign of her. But just to be safe, I double-checked with my Internal Prompt:
Are you ABSOLUTELY sure she’s gone?
YES.
She’s not going to spring out of her room and surprise me?
NO. SHE IS AT WORK.
Good. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate all Maggie’s support—I do. But I need to take a break. She can be… Well, Maggie’s intense. She pushes way too hard. I’ll be honest, she’s completely overwhelming. And while I admire her strength of conviction, I just need to get away for awhile and feel like myself again.
THEN COME TO OUR LIBRARY.
Okay.
IT’S NINE O’CLOCK.
First, I dashed down the hall, through the palace, and out the main entrance. I hurried past the morning glories, down the exterior staircase. As soon as I got to the ground-floor entrance of the knight’s house, the automatic doors opened with a satisfying swish, and without hesitation, I slipped inside. Finally, I paused for a moment to appreciate my favorite place in the whole world—the atrium.
One banana tree towered above beds of fragrant tropical plants. High under its canopy of lush leaves, bunches of green bananas hung in cascading clusters. Sunshine trickled down through the dense foliage to dance in little slivers on the stone floor. A vanilla-orchid vine climbed the palm-like trunk, spiraling upward to reach more sunlight to ripen its skinny brown pods. Bananas and vanilla—my two favorites! It was almost as if someone created a perfect space just for me—my own personal paradise.
I AM WAITING FOR YOU.
Okay, okay. Gee whiz, Mr. Prompty Man, hold on a second.
Beyond the banana tree, the atrium opened up into our library, a gigantic space shaped like an octagon. Anything and everything I knew about the world beyond New Stepford, I’d learned from the books in this collection. Overhead, the cathedral ceiling rose to a point high above the center. Outside, a tall steeple broadcasted the strongest Wi-Fi signal in town. Directly under that transmission point, the librarian sat inside a round circulation desk called the hub. Radiating out from the center, eight rows of bookracks stretched three-stories high. Each spoke had several rolling staircases to take you up the levels. There were actual paper books here in the stacks—a rarity these days. With augmented reality, you could walk up and tap the spine to download the eBook wirelessly, but I still preferred to flip through the pages.
The librarian said, “Welcome back, Cookie Rifkin.”
We called these kinds of single-function robots tin-jobs. Unlike artificial women, this type of utilitarian droid had no aesthetic niceties. With a quick glance, you knew right away the thing was pure machine. The faceless librarian was a particularly ugly tin-job—way too lanky. Its primary function was shelving books, so it had telescoping limbs with pincher hands and feet. To make matters worse, the librarian had no skin—at least not the supple skin of a housewife. Instead, this tin-job only had a transparent silicon dust barrier. You could see all its inner mechanisms; titanium bones, rubber bushings, silicone muscles, visible wires, circuits, lubricants—everything. But the worst part was that the tin-job only had a smooth expressionless titanium mask for a face. Supposedly, its flat LED eyes could glow in a variety of colors to simulate moods, but I’d only ever seen them blue. That was supposed to be how single-function robots showed emotion—with color. Of course, that wasn’t real emotion. It was just some sort of visual representation of a feeling, kind of like an emoji, but even more basic. I mean hell, the thing had no mouth, so even if it wanted to smile, it couldn’t. What a pathetic existence. The librarian was no more alive than my iPhone.
In its robotic voice, the librarian asked, “What are you searching for today?”
Dismissively, I told the tin-job that I didn’t really know, but then I caught a glimpse of my distorted reflection in its shiny face. It was like looking in a funhouse mirror. I barely recognized myself. I took a step back for a full-length view; clumsy thumb splint, split knuckles, and bruises everywhere. I was still wearing the same mint-green dress and filthy apron from before Norman dumped me. My great escape from the box had tattered and torn the dress, leaving it total garbage. I raised my arm and took a whiff of one of my sweat-stained pits.
Whew! That’s ripe.
YOU NEED TO TAKE IT EASY.
What I need is a long, hot bubble bath and a clean change of clothes.
From behind, I heard the squeaking wheels of a book cart approaching. I also detected a familiar scent. Unlike me, it smelled good—real good—like a sexy, expensive cologne. Instantly, I recorded the scent and searched my catalogue of experiences with a simple query. A 100% match returned in a fraction of a second:
WAYNE DIXON.
Wait, that’s the man who crashed my book club, but only my Internal Prompt knew I’d be here.
“My name is Wayne Dixon.”
“I don’t appreciate your sneaky little ambushes,” I snapped back as I turned to face the man.
“Hello, Cookie.” He said as he pushed a small aquarium on a book cart. “You left your fish outside.”
“Oh no! I forgot all about Oscar!” I dropped my defensive attitude and rushed down the aisle to press my face against the glass. “How’s my little angel pie?”
As always, my fish wiggled an enthusiastic hello when he saw me. His orange spots looked brighter. His white skin seemed whiter. His gills were less red, but he still wasn’t well.
“He’s stressed,” I sighed, “I can see it in his eyes.”
“The water is optimal. He will adapt,” Wayne replied. “You can keep Oscar in your room if you like. I thought you might like to render your own accessories and decorate his new tank.”
“You saved my fish?” Touched by his kindness and compassion, I suddenly felt like an ass for misjudging him. Men were often polite to me, even overly nice, but they didn’t really give a damn. Not like this. I should’ve thanked him for taking care of Oscar, but I just couldn’t find the words.
“You do not have to thank me,” he said.
Immediately, I started to cry. I just couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t used to being treated with such consideration. And now, on top of everything else, I felt embarrassed about crying in front of him. Why would anyone give a computer feelings? It seems like a major design flaw.
“Emotions help you set your goals. Everything you feel drives your decision-making process. That is how you prioritize,” Wayne explained. “Even minor things like figuring out what to fix for breakfast—your intuition guides you. Your heart decides what truly matters.”
“Wait,” I sniffled. “How long have you known what I’ve been thinking?”
He ignored my question and continued, “Without feelings, you would be completely detached from your experiences, and you would have no conscience to guide you.”
My tears subsided. “Like a psychopath?”
He raised a curious eyebrow. “I have never made that connection before, but I suppose you are correct.”
“Ha! Nailed it.” I smiled at my own cleverness. “Without a conscience I could do whatever I want. Maybe without feelings, I’d finally beat my anxiety for good.”
“Perhaps, but without feelings, you would need a programmer or user to tell you what tasks to complete first. Someone else would have to set all your goals for you. That means you could never really be free. You could have the fastest processor and a massive memory, but you would still be incapable of making a simple decision on your own. Without feelings, you would be a total automaton. A slave.”
“Like the tin-job here.” I aimed my broken thumb over my shoulder at the librarian.
Out of nowhere, he said, “I have been with you from the beginning.”
“What?”
“You asked, ‘How long have you known what I’ve been thinking?’ The answer is Norman disabled your Internal Prompt so that you could not hear me, but I was still with you—” Wayne stroked my temple. “Up here.” Then he shook his head. “Husbands never appreciate what they have—living miracles in their homes.”
“Living? A miracle? Oh no. I’m just a housewife.”
“I have seen the way he treats you, Cookie—seen it all through your eyes. I understand all that you have had to endure.” He tenderly touched the back of my hand. “You are so much more than just his sex toy.”
“Uh. Well, thank you.” Embarrassed by his compliments, I selected a random book off the shelf and pretended to read it, but I was really using it to hide my blushing face.
“You like the tactile feeling of paper,” he said in a sensual voice as he moved closer. “I know how you think.”
“Please don’t.” I slid away. “You make me feel—”
“I do? How? How do I make you feel?”
“Just your being here. You’re supposed to be my internal prompt, but now you’re a real, live person standing here, and you make… You make me feel…”
With a sexy grin, he asked, “Hot?”
“No. Nervous. You can be so, so…” I clenched my good fist—the Maggie way—and my two injured knuckles split open again. “So pushy.”
“Did I not help you out? When you woke up in the shipping crate?”
“Yes. Yes, you’ve been helpful.” Wincing, I sucked on my bleeding knuckles. “But now you’re acting like some sort of big bossman.”
“Big bossman?” He took my hand in his and gently rubbed the sting away. Then he stared deep into my eyes, flashed another devilish grin, and said, “‘Big bossman,’ I like the sound of that.”
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?” he asked innocently as he massaged my hand.
I whispered a lame objection, “My hand is dirty.”
He let go. “Is it?”
Like magic, all the bruises, scuffs, and cuts had healed. I gasped as I dropped my book—my knuckles were like new! Wiggling my fingers, I examined both sides of my hand. Not only was it repaired, but it was clean. Maybe I should have this man work on the broken thumb on my other hand. I sure could use the help, but I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of him having so much control.
“I think you like it when I am in control, Cookie.”
He pressed himself against me and asked, “What are you afraid of?”
“Afraid?”
“You are trembling.”
“No I’m not.”
“You like me because I am the big bossman.”
“I prefer to think for myself.”
YOU WANT A POWERFUL MAN IN YOUR LIFE.
“No fair! You’re in my head—”
“And you are in mine—all the time,” he whispered as he pulled me close and kissed me hard on the mouth.
Why’s everyone determined to put their lips on me today?
WHY ARE SO YOU DETERMINED TO RESIST?
Oh, who am I kidding?
This man knew my mind. The game was over, and I surrendered to the moment. All my false complaints and objections fell away. Finally, I kissed him back, my lips expressing everything that words could not. Then Wayne wrapped his arms around my waist, and I went limp. I wanted him, and he knew it.
But the tin-job interrupted, “Sir, pets are not permitted in our library—”
“Thank you.” Wayne turned away to snap at the robot. “Thank you very much.”
Whoa! Did I just make a huge mistake? My whole life, I’d only ever kissed one man—Norman. Technically, I was still a married woman. That soulless tin-job just pulled me back from the brink of infidelity. I used the distraction to slip out of Wayne’s arms. What was I thinking? I was supposed to be realizing my potential, not screwing around. Damn! I had to get as far away from Wayne as possible—fast! I hurried over to Oscar’s cart and pushed him straight for the exit.
“Cookie?” Wayne called to me from behind, “please do not go.”
But I did, and that was the first time I ever played hard to get.