Milly wore the new lingerie Damien had bought.
He took photographs. “Why don’t you take off that bracelet?”
“It’s special,” Milly said. “I’m afraid I’ll lose it.”
Damien flung his hands up in frustration.
She unclasped her bracelet and set it down.
He snapped a few more photos. “Let’s spice it up. Take it all off.”
“Where will these live?”
“Somewhere safe — here.”
“Then whatever you like.” She began to strip.
“Oh yeah …”
Compromising photographs … why this scene? In The Now, has that happened yet? No.
Are connections, once more, weaving time forward? Maybe.
Oh, no … please not this situation again.
Wearing her robe, Milly combed out her tangled hair with her fingers. She followed Damien into his home studio.
He took her photo chip and plugged it into his computer. “Right next to my new songs. Encrypted, airtight, no ‘cloud’ bullshit — that’s just someone else’s computer.” He grinned. “You’re mine.” His thumb pressed the case security pad. “Locked!”
His music, her form In The Now, locked in her desk Encased and enmeshed
He booted up music software. “These producer jobs have been paying the bills, I guess, but I need another hit.”
“I like the songs you produce.”
“They’re other people’s songs.”
Milly clipped her bracelet back on. “What about more celebrity gigs? They’re fun.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Birthday parties for billionaires and princes pay well.”
“Ugh, I’m just another novelty item for them.” Damien tapped her special bracelet. “Like that thing.”
“How are your new songs coming?”
“Amazing! Just gotta be careful what I do versus the AI, so I get the copyright.” He sat Milly in his lap. “With a new contract, I’ll release my songs. Companies have no tolerance for a sophomore slump anymore. I’ll work harder. One-hit-wonder, my ass.”
She smiled. “Maybe you were just lucky.”
His jaw dropped — devastated. He ejected her from his lap.
Milly jerked her head back. “What? There’s nothing wrong with luck. I’m very lucky!”
He stormed off.
“Damien, what?” she shouted. “I met you, didn’t I?”
That was her twenty-first birthday.
By counting twelve birthdays starting at age twelve I—
Wait. One word — I.
Since this story began, you’ve seen — her, we, them, us, our, my — from one perspective: mine.
Yet, have you noticed? One word went unused since scene one, by me, about myself: I.
Why?
Certainly deliberate. Everything here is, though not my intention. Whose?
Who orchestrates everyone here and connects us with words?
The Conductor — that’s who — it must’ve been.