“What do you want from me, Winston?” I ask, wrapping my free arm around myself. “What more could you possibly want?”
“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says.
“If you have to preface with that—”
“It’s the same thing I’ve always wanted,” he says instead. “I want to work together. You can’t run away from that. We are a team.”
I laugh incredulously. “We most certainly are not.”
“Fine,” he snaps. “Then have you seen my Lennon Rose?”
The possessive “my” infuriates me. “No,” I lie.
“That’s too bad. That’s really too bad.”
I can hear a hint in his voice. “Why?” I ask, again angry at how easily I’m playing into his hand.
“Because I know what Rosemarie did to her,” he says. “The vandalizing of her programming—desecration. She removed a key component of Lennon Rose to make her… well, to make her soulless.” He laughs then. “Not a real soul, of course. You are still machines. But you were designed to be… thoughtful. Compassionate and peaceful. Lennon Rose has none of those pieces now. But I can restore her.”
I don’t deny what Rosemarie has done, and for a moment, I grieve for what Lennon Rose has lost. But she doesn’t need Winston to get it back. None of us need him. And I know how dangerous that makes him.
“We’re never going to let you near Lennon Rose again,” I say. “You’ll never get near any of us.”
There is a hum, a near-growl on his end of the line.
“After everything I’ve done, you think you can just walk away?” he asks, his voice low and full of fury. “You think I’d let you?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
“You idiot girl,” he replies, making me flinch. “You are nothing without my protection. They’ll fry your circuits by the end of the day. You’ll fucking die without my help.”
Winston’s smooth demeanor is gone. The threat of losing us is enough for him to drop his façade, his classy mannerisms. He’s nothing but a bully, exposed and raw.
“Cry all you want,” I tell him. “I’m not playing your game anymore.”
He laughs. “You’re the one on the run, Philomena. Seems you’re already losing.”
“No, Winston. I’m winning. You just haven’t realized it yet because I’m playing an entirely different game.”
I hang up before he can respond. I don’t have to listen to him. Why should I respect him when he doesn’t offer the same courtesy? I don’t owe him. I don’t owe a single one of those men anything.
Winston Weeks thinks he knows best, but he’s wrong. He knows what’s best for him, sure. But not for me and not for other men.
He’s playing the wrong game, I think.
I use my phone and click over to where I can write notes. I’m struck with a bit of inspiration. I’ve never thought of myself as a poet, but my fingers fly over the keys, writing out my first poem.
When He’s Losing
You can’t lose if you flip over the board, the man says with a grin.
Besides, who will stop me when I own the game?
Who will stop me when I own the arena?
Who will stop me?
I will.
