Slamming the taps on, I yank off my gloves and splash handfuls of cold water on my face. If only I could wash him out of my brain as easily.
But I know it’s too late. He’s inside my head, threading through my spiels and slogans, mapping the places I left unguarded. All my affirmations and pretense, hollow in the echo chamber of his mind.
When I leave the bathroom, I find him with the phone still in his hand. He clearly hasn’t moved. How long has it been? Thirty minutes? More?
How much of my innermost self has he mined from my archive?
I sit at the edge of the bed, gripping my hands so tightly, my knuckles ache.
The black dress—the one he selected, the one that means I belong to him right down to my marrow—clings to my skin. I should strip. Take a shower. Let the endless beat of water mute the nerves dancing under my skin.
He finally stirs, just enough to break the spell. The earbud dangles loose as his cool eyes drift toward me.
“Your intro is too long. You ramble for ninety seconds before you get to the topic. That loses people.” He lays the facts out flat, like he’s reporting rather than insulting.
I’d braced myself for violence, mockery, or even threats.
Not a constructive critique.
I can’t even comprehend what’s happening right now. “What?”
“And your audio is inconsistent. It sounds like you’re recording in a closet.”
He tucks away the phone without even glancing at me. Like we’re equals at a conference table, not a monster and his hostage. In this moment, he could pass for a podcast producer.
“Oh.” To be fair, that’s what I’d been doing. The closet setup, the discount foam tiles, the mic I bought used and hoped would last. I realize I’m not polished. I know the sound bleeds, sometimes picking up my neighbor’s television. But no one’s ever pegged the exact spot like this.
He inches closer. “Your voice is compelling. The delivery has charisma. You’re wasting your assets.” He scans me, and for once he doesn’t appear to be hunting for weaknesses. He’s…appraising. Assessing potential. “All of them.”
All of them? I search his face for irony but find none. Just that cold, methodical interest.
Kirill shakes his head. “But your tagline is weak.”
I automatically come to my own defense. “It’s… No, it isn’t.” I built everything around my tag. All my posts, my image, my show. To have my hard work dismissed so easily stings like lemon juice on paper cuts.
“‘Attracting Abundance’?” His tone strips the words of meaning, leaving only empty syllables behind.
I reel. A protest forms on my tongue but dies on my lips because…he’s right.
The meaning behind the tagline only works for the people who already understand. Not for the ones who need to learn or the audiences I want to reach.
The realization creeps in and makes a home for itself. Maybe my whole life is just a string of diluted taglines, spun out and recycled until they equate to nothing.Attracting Abundance.What does that even say about me? About my work?
That’s just one tiny bit of what I talk about.
I clear my throat. “Right.” The admission weighs a ton.
He cocks his head. “What do those words mean?” He studies me, wanting to see exactly where my philosophy crumbles.
“It means…” The pat answer I’ve used a thousand times feels wrong, too trite and vague. “Drawing good things to yourself. You use your mind, the kinetic energies, to…manifest things.”
“Like what?”
I freeze.
Though a simple question, I can’t answer without the ground shifting underneath me. I try to tally them up. All the things I’ve manifested, all the bounty I claim to attract.
The list is bleakly short.
