All the dust in here makes me cough. I own this room the same way someone can own a constellation. It is unclear who is responsible for it, but I doubt anyone other than me ever steps in here. The monitor is cabled and too bright. Regardless, I am still able to see the highlight of the evening. From the dark a silhouette steps forward. My work brings her into view, glowing. The small talk fades out, she waits, and then she speaks.
“A mind, two minds. A precipice, a cliff, us, here at the factory of consciousness. It beats, and it beats. We run. I stay. I'm here. I am here. At the end of it all, only we will remain. Forever, again, we stay and I run away. Us.”
A silent applause fills the room I am watching. I consider the interplay of the colors. The green works out well, though it may be too cold for her suit. This is nitpicking, and how I stay in shape.
I switch the monitor to a different angle, and I am horrified. She is wearing sneakers, I think, with shoelaces that are practically flashing on the screen. This is bad, really bad. She might get reprimanded, probably not, but I am responsible. The other angles showed nothing — maybe no one noticed? I do not want to take the chance. Right now, it is too late not to.
She tilts her head back, enough for me to see the glance. I know she is looking at me, judging me, laughing at me. She does not care about me. It is nothing but a slight at me, and it is one that impugns my reliability.
She speaks again, with more certainty and clarity.
“Who are you?”
It is not a question. A pause before she turns and leaves the stage. The audience gives a second round of even gentler applause before returning to their chatter. I start biting my tongue.