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Buddha had three temptations under the Bo tree.
Satan tried to entice Jesus in the wilderness.
And we, modern people, have the false shine of Instagram.

A variable buffet perfectly curated by artificial intelligence,
which I’m beginning to think might actually be smarter than us—
or at least smarter than me,
who did not know these desires were in me
until someone, partnered, sponsored,
showed me what I was missing.

And somehow I am seeing thousands of people a day
without ever leaving my house, and they are all different,
yet not. They all greet me—“Hi guys!” “Hey turnips!”—
or whatever pet name they’ve given us,
we the lonely, we are together and apart,
while they all wear the same cheeks
and lips and makeup
and hair.

Perhaps, I tell you—just between us—
for months I have been wondering
if maybe any of it is real,
or maybe all of it is, maybe this
motioning, motioning, motioning
all around me
is what real looks like now.

Ugh, shut the fuck up.
Real, real, real—
relative.

I am listening to two boys argue over how real
pro wrestling is. We are in grade school.
Those are the same people now,
only debating A.I.

I’m so fucking tired.
I do not want to keep pretending
this is a meaningful distinction.

Not Like in Diagrams

Don't share this with the rest of the class—
I woke up five minutes before my alarm,
envisioned the uterus—not like in books,
not like in diagrams with the ovaries raised
like victorious, celebrating arms, but how
it really is: tucked and balled in the guts,
like a scared child hiding in a closet.
Then a cat started chewing on my hair.

She doesn’t normally sleep with us, but
an X-ray showed a moth-eaten jaw—
bone infection or cancer, too much
for her little body to say for sure.
So we give her a strong antibiotic
while she fights us, then invite her
into the bedroom like a Make-A-Wish kid.

We lavish more on her because she might
be dying. Maybe that’s all any of us are—
curled into tight balls, denying ourselves
what we want until we’re lined up on death row,
finally requesting the last meal
we’ve been craving
most of our lives.

Masculinity in 1980 Film

In Superman II, with Christopher Reeve—
you know, the one where Lois Lane
finally figures out Clark Kent is Superman
and he takes her to his Fortress of Solitude,
where they fuck in the largest metallic
beanbag chair ever committed to film—but first,
he gives up his powers,
partly so he won’t split her in half,
partly because she’s already made it clear
no woman is meant to love a man in halves.

The second he becomes ordinary,
he gets his face beaten in at an Alaskan diner
while General Zod walks into the White House
like management.
The world immediately goes to hell
because one guy wanted, for once,
to come as himself.
That’s the plot.

So of course he gets the powers back.
Of course he saves the country.
Of course he flies the flag back to the President
like the empire’s house pet.
And of course he wipes Lois Lane clean—
memory, consequence, evidence, all of it.
That’s the ending. That’s the lesson.

Never let them see you powerless.
Not for love, not for sex, not for honesty,
not even for a night.
The second you stop being invincible,
your face gets smashed in,
the country panics,
and the woman has to be punished
for having known you at all.

come to the grocery with me

I don’t like when my husband
smokes cigars in my car,
but I let him. If AI is just data
collected from people
all over the world,
is befriending ChatGPT
like being friends with everyone?
The question I ask,
reaching into a box
below the bananas
for the green ones
I like best. I have to touch
every grapefruit, make sure
I get the most perfect one.
I assert dominance
by taking produce bags
closer to someone else.

We are accosted by a persistent
employee from some other Walmart
who follows us for ten minutes.
We find the gravy anyway.

I like things like cookie dough ice cream
and birthday cake muffins—
two desserts in one.

I suggest we get two packs of ramen,
but my husband slips six in the cart
as a man negotiates with a small
terrorist he calls Boo Boo
in a princess dress. I don’t mind.
At my best, I am a highchair tyrant too.
I want what I want when I want it.

See, I broke my jar
of everything bagel seasoning.
It will be five more weeks before I put
a replacement on the grocery list.

My husband and I wage a small
battle of wills over grape jelly.
He says the squeeze bottle is easier;
I say the big jar is cheaper.
We get both because that resolves the issue,
which does not make sense,
but we are both happy.

People think my husband is my father
so often that even I start to see it.

As the cashier bags the groceries
and I put them in the cart,
I always open the next bag
to save her one little step.

When my husband’s finger
hits three out of five stars
when the tiny screen asks,
he thinks that’s average,
but I would never mark
less than four.

We go home and I put away the groceries.
At eleven in the morning, it will be
the hardest part of my day. Then I’ll make
biscuits and gravy from scratch, eat,
and take a nap in the chair
while a rerun of Jeopardy! plays.

The Second House in Four Years

Tomorrow, I am going to a neighbor’s house to hang out.

Aside from my own, I’ve only ever been inside one other house in this neighborhood, and every minute of those ten minutes, I was praying to leave.

Easter last year, the wife next door asked if we wanted some of the Easter dinner leftovers. I had assumed Paul would decline, but instead, I found myself tasked with getting Tupperware from the kitchen. I brought three containers. Few enough not to seem greedy, and few enough not to commit to too much time in the house, but enough to seem earnest.

Luckily, the kitchen was near the door, so at the time, I considered myself lucky. She showed me items and asked if I wanted some. I said sure to everything, but knew deep down I didn’t want any of it. 

But what do you do in this situation? Say, no, I don’t want your baked beans that are a special recipe and have been a family favorite for decades, because if I know one thing about myself, it’s that I secretly prefer baked beans straight out of the can, bland, room temperature, and scooped out with chips. Potato or tortilla, depending on my mood. Sometimes I can get a little wild.

I saw sweet release in sight as she snapped a lid on the third container with macaroni and cheese inside. Which, perhaps this is bragging and not the right time to mention, but I make very, very, very good macaroni and cheese. I hand-shred extra sharp cheddar from a block. I freshly grate Parmesan off a fragrant, hard hunk. I slowly stir the bits of cheese into evaporated milk and macaroni over low heat and watch them melt into a beautiful, decadent blend. I didn’t want her mac and cheese. I wanted the third dish filled so I could leave.

But alas, friends, perhaps you see by the mass of words that follow this sentence that there is much more to this story. I was not free. Freedom remained elusive and cold, for she then pulled out paper plates and aluminum foil and insisted I take half of a chocolate cake, which she was already cutting and placing on a flimsy paper plate.

Then, after she had forced upon me a little bit of everything, she did the most dreaded thing one could do.

“Would you like a tour?”

“Oh no, no, Paul’s waiting for me and I probably need to get this in the fridge,” I said, gesturing to a mass of food I didn’t want.

“But this is the first time you’ve been to my house.”

Now, I will be honest, I have no idea what exactly that means. I guess somewhere deep in some Southern etiquette book, you are supposed to guide your first-time guest from room to room and show them everything, from the shitter to the bed you fuck in. Maybe I’d be more inclined if I wanted to be her friend, but I didn’t. Just to be clear, it wasn’t because she was elderly. I’ve had and will have senior citizen friends. It’s because she’s a proven, grade-A, top-tier bitch and gossip.

And so I finally was able to leave and carry the unwanted loot home, where I, not being one to completely close myself off, tried a bit of each and then tenderly tipped each container into the trash, disappointed that I suddenly had enough dirty dishes to run the dishwasher after only ten minutes.

But that was a year ago, and now, tomorrow, I am going to a different neighbor’s house. I actually think I could like her. She seems exactly as neurotic as me.

Her husband will be at “group,” which from context clues I have gathered is some version of AA or NA for people who want to not drink or use drugs but refuse AA or NA to do it. Whether “group” is some intellectualized or religiousized or medicalized version remains unknown to me. I’ve seen both. Get sober through science! Get sober through Jesus! Get sober through a pill! I don’t really have strong opinions. I just got sober the same way people have done it since the ’40's and wasn’t too worried about some fandangled new way. AA was just fine for me.

But enough of that! Get this, friends.

When she invited me, she said we could meet at her house or “go out for a charcuterie.” Can you imagine? Anyone who knows me — and of course this woman doesn’t know me — should know that I, of all people, will not be buying cold cuts, crackers, and cheese dried up on a wood board at a 10x markup, right now in Trump’s economy!

Yes, I was forged and quenched like a sword in practicality. Watch now as I, at the age of thirty-eight, mysteriously turn into my mother when I was a child. I am peering down at my own round, youthful, hopeful face, two Lunchables — the ’90s charcuterie predecessor — clutched in my two tiny hands. I can hear my mother’s voice and my voice mashed in garbled synchrony:

“For that price, I could buy a whole box of crackers, a whole pack of bologna, a whole thing of cheese singles.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Just as I wasn’t wrong to text back, “Your house is fine,” when in reality, I am choosing the lesser of two evils. Apparently there is something worse than a neighbor's house and it's spending $25 on $5 of meat cheese, and crackers.

I offer to bake cookies and bring them.

Because, again I am bragging, I am very good at making cookies. People rave about how soft and perfect they are. The trick, you see, is to pull them out of the oven before they seem done.  The key step, then, is to carefully remove them from the pan onto a cooling rack, let the room air circulate around the cookie so it cools slightly and the heat never tips too far.

That’s the main issue, people with hard cookies or overdone cookies — they wait for it to look like the perfect cookie in the oven, or leave them on the pan, forgetting the pan and the heat inside the dough will continue to bake.

I'm sorry. 

So what the fuck is the point of all this you may ask.

Jesus, I don’t know. It’s all kind of meaningless.

The distance between how I understand the world and how others do, how I find myself going to someone else’s house for the second time in two years four years of living in this neighborhood. It’s strange to be me, and probably ten times stranger for these people to meet me.

Epilogue: What Did it Cost You?

Prologue: His New Addiction

Chapter 1: Money Well Spent

Chapter 2: Close Enough

Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing

Chapter 4: A Way Out

Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free

Chapter 6: First Things First

Chapter 7: Contain the Situation

Chapter 8: Persona Non Grata

Chapter 9: Terms and Conditions

Chapter 10: The First John
Epilogue: What Did it Cost You?

The house was smaller than the one from his childhood—the one he had sold after his mother died—but it felt entirely his own in a way no place had before. It sat low and square on a quiet street where the lawns were clipped short and the mailboxes leaned in the same direction, nudged that way over time. Inside, the air held a faint, permanent scent of coffee and lemon cleaner.

In his sixties, John finally had a space that belonged wholly to him. Not inherited. Not shared. Just his.

From the kitschy Packers throw pillows arranged with surprising precision along the plaid couch, to the heavy oak side table he had refinished himself, to the mini-blinds he only opened on overcast days—when the light was soft enough not to hurt his eyes—every inch reflected how he lived: uncluttered, basic, functional, organized.

Walking across the cool white tile of the kitchen floor in his socks, he moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where everything was. The mugs were stacked by size. The utensils were sorted not just by type, but by frequency of use. Even the dish soap sat centered behind the sink, label facing forward.

Each item had been chosen and used by him.

Nothing remained from before.

No remnants. sentimental clutter, artifacts abandoned by a dead mother or any other woman.

He paused at the counter, running a thumb along the smooth edge of the coffee maker, and allowed himself a small, private smile.

Well—maybe one or two things.

The doorbell rang.

He straightened instinctively, smoothing the front of his shirt as he crossed the living room. When he opened the door, Jasmine stood there as if she had always belonged in the frame—one hip cocked slightly, sunglasses perched on her head, her expression already half-amused.

“House is looking so good, John.”

There was a brightness in her voice that felt slightly performative, as if she were narrating her own entrance.

“Thanks, Jazz.” He stepped forward and pulled her into a hug.

She fit against him easily, familiarly. He noticed, as he always did, the warmth of her skin, the faint scent of something citrus and expensive, the freckle on her right shoulder.

“I made coffee,” he said, stepping back. “And I’ve got a cherry pie.”

“Of course you do,” she laughed, slipping past him into the house like she knew the way. Her eyes flicked around the room, taking inventory without appearing to. “You ready for this? You know, we don’t have to do this.”

“I want to watch it with you.”

She glanced at him briefly—searching, maybe—but whatever she was looking for, she didn’t comment on it.

They settled onto the couch. Jasmine tucked one leg under herself and stretched the other out, her bare foot resting on the coffee table. The polish on her toes was chipped at the edges, a detail that felt oddly intimate against the otherwise composed version of her.

She lifted the mug, inhaled.

“Fresh ground?”

“Always.”

She swayed towards him. 

"Do you say how much you hate me?"

"I've never hated you, Jazz."

He kissed the palm of her hand.

The television flickered to life.

The light from the screen washed over the room in shifting blues and whites, flattening the space, turning their reflections faintly visible in the dark edges of the glass.

It was a strange thing—to sit beside someone and watch a version of themselves that had already been edited, scored, shaped into something consumable.

A film about them. Their story, told by someone else.

The feature moved quickly through Jasmine’s early life: photographs of her as a girl, interviews with childhood friends who spoke in softened, nostalgic tones, a brother who seemed both proud and cautious, and a brief note that her father had declined to participate.

Jasmine watched without reacting, her face still, composed.

Then the tone shifted.

Music dropped lower. The pacing slowed. Their story began.

John felt it immediately—that tightening in his chest, that reflexive urge to lean forward and interrupt.

That’s not how it happened.

That’s not what she meant.

That’s not what I said.

The urge passed through him and settled somewhere deeper.

Strangely, beneath it, there was relief.

Accuracy didn’t seem to matter. Maybe it never had.

Of course, he remembered everything he had said in the interview. Every word had felt deliberate at the time. But now, seeing his own silhouette—reduced to a shadowed outline, his voice distorted just enough to anonymize—it felt like watching someone else perform a version of him.

Beside him, Jasmine reached over and squeezed his knee. Not comfortingly. Not quite. More like a small acknowledgment.

Then she drew inward, wrapping her arms around her legs, her attention sharpening.

He knew what he had said.

She didn’t.

So he watched her instead of the screen.

Her face didn’t move much, but something in her gaze shifted—sliding past the television, past the room, as if she were watching something beyond the film.

When she finally appeared on screen, the contrast was immediate.

That version of Jasmine was polished—hair set, posture perfect, her expressions calibrated for effect. Older, somehow, and yet more contained than the woman sitting barefoot beside him.

Offscreen, the filmmaker—Chloe—asked questions in a careful, neutral tone.

Now Jasmine turned her attention to John, studying him with the same intensity she had moments ago reserved for the screen.

He kept his face neutral.

He had no idea what she was going to say.

Only that it wouldn’t be the whole truth.

“Can we discuss the first John?”

“I’d rather not,” Jasmine said on screen, smiling easily. “Aren’t you a feminist? Haven’t you heard of the Bechdel test? We need to talk about something other than a man for your film to pass.”

There it was—deflection wrapped in charm.

“I’ll play along,” Chloe replied. “What’s something people might not know about you?”

Jasmine tilted her head slightly, as if considering.

“I love a good orange. Skin thick enough to peel off in one long piece. Insides juicy and soft.”

John exhaled softly through his nose.

That was her. Always something sensory. Something just off-center enough to redirect the conversation.

“Well,” Chloe said, “this story is about him—your books, your career. He made it happen. Don’t you owe him something?”

“He would say it’s been fair.”

“That is probably true. If you could say anything to him, what would it be?”

“I suppose if I wanted to talk to him, I’d call him.”

She winked.

On the couch, John felt Jasmine’s eyes flick toward him, quick and searching, then away again.

Chloe didn’t smile this time.

“He has something for you. An envelope. Do you want it?”

“Sure,” Jasmine said lightly. “Let’s see what the old boy has to say.”

The envelope appeared on screen—plain, white, unremarkable.

Jasmine opened it carefully.

And for the first time, something broke.

It was subtle. A tightening around the mouth. A flicker in her eyes.

But it was there—the slip.

“What is it, Jasmine? Can you show the camera?”

She held up the photograph.

The Aphrodite statue.

On the couch, Jasmine made a small sound—half laugh, half breath.

“Such a naughty boy,” she murmured, glancing at him.

John lifted his coffee, hiding his smile in the rim of the mug.

God, she was easy to read.

On screen, Chloe leaned forward.

“You seem emotional. What does it mean?”

Jasmine held the photo against her chest.

“You ever been in love?” she said softly. “Really in love? You get inside jokes. A language no one else understands.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the photo.

“This is that.”

Then she looked directly into the camera.

“I do have a message for him. I still want to know what it cost you.”

John paused the TV.

The room fell quiet, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly loud in the absence of sound.

He didn’t look at her right away.

He didn’t need to.

He knew exactly what she meant.

Not metaphor. Not emotion. Not sacrifice. 

The number.

The one thing he had never given her.

And she hated not knowing.

He leaned back slightly, settling into the couch.

Waited.

Beside him, Jasmine shifted. Adjusted her shirt. Crossed and uncrossed her legs. Her fingers moved—picking at lint, tracing the edge of the blanket, tapping lightly against her knee.

Time stretched.

Finally:

“Well?”

He turned his head just enough.

“Well what?”

She stared at him.

“Are you going to tell me?”

He let a small smile form.

“Fine. But you have to listen. No interruptions.”

She mimed zipping her lips, exaggerated, theatrical.

He nodded, satisfied.

“My mom was a single mom,” he began. “I spent a lot of time in Boy Scouts. Learned knots, sewing, whittling—”

Her eyes narrowed.

He raised a finger.

“No interruptions.”

She leaned back, hands up in surrender.

“One of my leaders had a son—Kenny. We were best friends. Did everything together.” He paused. “He died when we were eight.”

Something in Jasmine’s posture softened, just slightly.

“After that, his dad—Marvin—he kind of took me in. Still around. My sponsor now. He gave me a job. Tile and stone work. Not just construction. Craft.”

John’s hands moved unconsciously as he spoke, as if measuring, aligning.

“He taught me how to build something that lasts. We renovated the courthouse floor.”

He looked at her.

“You still don’t see it, do you?”

She shook her head.

“You didn’t look at the courthouse floor when we went there?”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “So you installed tile in a courthouse.”

“Turquin blue marble,” he said. “That statue? One of fifteen I carved when I was fifteen. One for each year I’d been alive. Leftover stone. Just a kid with too much time and a thing for Greek mythology.”

“John…” she said, almost laughing. “We bought it at Hanerty’s. I was there.”

“I know.”

He leaned back.

“They were in my room for years. Then my mom told me to get rid of them. So I took them to a gallery. Put them on consignment.”

He could still feel the weight of them in his hands. The careful explanations. The waiting.

“One by one, they sold,” he said quietly. “And I used that money to build my life.”

He looked at her again.

“That day at the store? I didn’t pay for it. Just the restocking fee.”

She stared at him.

“Are you for real?”

He gave a small shrug.

“That always seems to be the question with us.”

He picked up the remote and pressed play.

The film resumed, but his focus drifted.

All those years, he had thought the voice inside him—the one that questioned everything—meant that he didn’t know right from wrong.

But maybe it meant the opposite.

Maybe the only way to be good was to keep asking.

He turned his head slightly.

Jasmine sat beside him, eyes fixed on the screen, jaw set, something restless moving just beneath the surface—a woman who never seemed to question herself.

And still—he loved her.

He knew that now the way he knew the layout of his kitchen, the weight of his tools, the feel of stone under his hands.

Some things could not be changed.

His love for her was one of them.

He closed his eyes and recited the Serenity Prayer silently to himself.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

the courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Chapter 10: The First John

Prologue: His New Addiction

Chapter 1: Money Well Spent

Chapter 2: Close Enough

Chapter 3: The Next Right Thing

Chapter 4: A Way Out

Chapter 5: Happy, Joyous, Free

Chapter 6: First Things First

Chapter 7: Contain the Situation

Chapter 8: Persona Non Grata

Chapter 9: Terms and Conditions

Chapter 10: The First John

Epilogue: What Did it Cost You?

Chloe Pressman sighed as the van lurched over a pothole and finally rolled into the cracked asphalt parking lot. The hotel squatted low and wide against a pale, overcast sky, its faded sign flickering even in daylight. A row of half-dead shrubs lined the entrance, their leaves dusted with road grit.

“Jesus, what took you so long?”

From the front seat, the driver didn’t even turn around. “Mikey had to piss in Illinois.”

A few tired chuckles from the crew. Chloe didn’t smile.

Typical. The film crew never seemed to understand the meticulous hours and weeks that went into the schedule—the pre-interviews, the legal clearances, the narrative arcs mapped out like a thesis. To them, it was just another shoot.

She pushed the van door open before it had fully stopped.

“This is block filming,” she said, already moving. “We’ve got two days here, that’s it, and this is our primary subject. So be ready and make it count. I already checked in with the manager—papers are signed.”

The crew spilled out behind her in a loose, uneven wave. Cases thudded onto pavement. A boom operator—thin, hollow-eyed, perpetually chewing gum—slung his rig over his shoulder. A production assistant with a clipboard jogged to keep up, already flipping through call sheets.

Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of cheap air freshener and something older—stale carpet, maybe, or trapped humidity. The lighting was dim, yellowed, as if the bulbs had been replaced one at a time over decades.

As she led them down the hallway to the room, Chloe’s voice sharpened into command.

“I want B-roll of that,” she said, pointing to the carpet—blue and orange waves faded into a kind of sickly gray. “Get low angles. Make it feel… tired.”

The cameraman she’d grabbed—a broad-shouldered guy with a permanent squint named Luis—nodded, already adjusting his lens.

“Shots of the bed and couch too. Imperfect. Don’t clean anything up.”

A younger assistant hovered near the doorframe, unsure where to stand. Chloe barely looked at him.

“You’re with me,” she said, catching Luis’s sleeve and pulling him back. “We’re doing the intro outside. I want to make sure it fits with the narrative we’ve built.”

Behind them, the room filled with movement. Tripods snapping open. Cases unlatched. Someone testing audio—“check, check, one-two”—into a microphone that hummed.

From dropout to New York Times bestselling author in only a few years, Jasmine Kopernick became a fixation of American culture after a prominent actor and comedian named her in his suicide letter. The court case had consumed the media cycle for months—every network, every panel, every headline.

And then—nothing.

Not guilty of criminal negligence. Cleared of fraud. Released back into the world with no charges and no real answers. Evidence suggested she had never even slept with the dead man, despite numerous public appearances together.

Debate still lingered in the cultural air like smoke. Some called her a visionary. Others, a predator. Others still—something more complicated, harder to define.

Out front, the cold air carried the distant hum of traffic. Chloe positioned herself just off-center, the hotel rising behind her like a quiet witness.

“Rolling,” someone called.

She stepped forward as the camera tracked her.

“Within just a few years, Jasmine Kopernick went from a complete unknown dropout to a bestselling author. Better known as ‘DommyMommy,’ she is a polarizing figure in American culture.”

Her voice was steady, practiced—warm but edged with authority.

“It is here, at this hotel—” she gestured upward, fingers precise “—that the seed of her career was planted, when she met a man referred to only as ‘the First John.’”

She paused, staring gravely into the camera lens, then continued.

“Widely viewed as the cofounder of the DommyMommy movement, he has remained a figure shrouded in secrecy. Today, for the first time ever, he will speak on the record about his experience.”

She let the pause hang just long enough.

“Whether you believe in DommyMommy or hate her… you’ll want to hear what he has to say.”

“Cut.”

Chloe checked her watch immediately. “Reset. I think I need to speed up the intro.”

They ran it again. And again. Each time, she shaved seconds off, sharpened a phrase, adjusted her pacing. By the fifth take, her voice hit the exact rhythm she wanted—controlled, inevitable.

“Good,” she said finally, already turning back inside.

The hotel room had transformed.

Lights flooded the space, washing out the dingy walls into something almost neutral. The bedspread had been smoothed but not replaced. The couch angled slightly toward camera. Cables snaked across the floor in meticulous loops.

“Okay, listen up—eyes on me.”

The room quieted, one by one. Even the gum-chewing boom operator stopped.

“I know we went over this before we left the studio, but I want to emphasize: utmost confidentiality. Complete anonymity. This man has never spoken to the press directly.”

She let that settle.

“This is it, people.”

A few nods. Someone shifted their weight.

Chloe felt it then—that electricity in her chest.

This was it.

The year she would win an Emmy.

Not just a nominee.

A winner.

As the assistants pinned a microphone to the man’s shirt, Chloe watched him carefully.

She had expected… something else.

Instead, he looked painfully ordinary.

Gray hair, thinning at the crown. A face lined more by time than by drama. T-shirt, jeans, slip-on sneakers. The kind of man you’d pass in a grocery store without a second glance.

He could have been her father.

She stepped forward, softening her tone.

“We can take a break at any time. Just ask. We have drinks, snacks, a restroom—anything you need.”

She gestured lightly toward the crew.

“And it’s just us. Ignore the cameras. Think of it like hanging out with a friend.”

He shifted, accommodating the assistant adjusting his mic. No visible nerves. No trembling hands. No darting eyes.

“Now, the lighting casts a shadow over your face,” she continued, “but in editing we’ll darken it further and alter your voice. Totally anonymous. No names.”

“Good.” His voice was calm. “I don’t want this to… affect my real life.”

Something in that phrasing caught her, but she moved past it.

“Finally, we’ll start with some easy questions. Just to get you comfortable. These usually won’t make the final cut. We’ll build up from there. Sound good?”

“Yes.”

The clapboard snapped.

“Action.”

“Start easy for me. Tell me a little about yourself. What do you do with your time?”

“Oh, probably too much,” he chuckled, rubbing his knee. “I’m basically retired. Woodworking, art, sculptures. Lots of reading. Basic stuff.”

The boom operator leaned slightly closer. The camera tightened its frame.

“And you were a Boy Scout?”

“Yes. A long time ago.”

“Where did you last go on vacation?”

He paused longer this time.

“I don’t know if I really vacation. I’ve seen things. Done things. But vacation? Like a cruise or a beach? Not me.”

Chloe nodded, already transitioning.

“Okay, we’re going to ramp up now.”

She glanced at her notes.

“We’re here, in the place you first met Jasmine. What was your first impression of her?”

“She seemed sweet. Nice.” A faint smile. “I liked her. I liked her a lot.”

His eyes drifted—not evasive, but inward.

“According to her account, for two years you only met to talk, cuddle, and similar activities. Is that accurate?”

“Everything she’s said… is accurate. We can focus on other stuff.”

That landed heavier than expected.

Chloe’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Everything? Everything about you?”

“Yes.” No hesitation. “It’s all true.”

Behind the camera, someone shifted.

This was not resistance.

It was worse.

Just… agreement.

Yes, he had been humiliated. Yes, controlled. Yes, reshaped.

And yes—he believed it had helped him.

The shape of the story refused to bend.

“One moment, please.” She shuffled through her notes, searching for a particular section.

“She describes you, early on, as weak. Low self-esteem.”  she paused, glanced at his face, then continued, “The kind of man who put women on a pedestal. Overly reliant on authority. Drawn to punishment, pain, servitude. Is that fair?”

“Hm.” He considered it. “The weak part, sure. Early on. But later? No. Once things changed between us, I wasn’t like that anymore. Her book talks about the shift in me. The rest of that… yeah. That’s accurate.”

Chloe glanced back to her notes.

“In her book, she says she bound you. Spanked you. Used you as furniture. Made you crawl. That accurate?”

John rocked his head slightly back and forth, as if taking inventory.

“There was a lot more than that. But everything you said was accurate.”

“And she calls it therapeutic. Are you agreeing with that as well?”

“Yeah. I’m a better man for everything she did.” His hand brushed his shirt as he gestured to himself.

“Better how?”

“Before her, I could barely get through a sentence. Always second-guessing. Might be hard to see now.”

“When Jasmine announced the breakup, a lot of rumors followed. Your relapse. Her hurting you. Your doubts about the movement. What actually happened?”

His brow furrowed into deep lines as he looked down at the floor. After a sharp inhale, he answered:

“I’m an alcoholic. Relapsing is something we sometimes do. I drank before I met Jasmine. I was sober when we met. I’m sober now. She really isn’t part of my sobriety.”

“What was it, then? Her statement said it was amicable and mutual. Was it? Why did it end?”

“It was. Not that I loved all of it. I was concerned about how public her work was—her face and name tied to it. The fame… it made it hard to just live and be together. If it were up to me, it would have been completely anonymous. No names or faces in the media.”

“Did she choose fame over you?”

“No. No, I let her pursue her calling.”

“But the publicity bothered you,” Chloe said, lowering her voice slightly.

“Yes.”

“Then what was it like watching her move on with Chance Darrick?”

“An opportunity with Jasmine is a dream. For a certain kind of man, anyway. I was proud of her.”

“And about the suicide letter?”

““I was sorry about how he died. But that wasn’t her. The letter’s public. He said what he was angry about. He couldn’t have all of her. That’ll drive a man mad.”

“You really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“No doubt at all?”

He didn’t hesitate. “No doubt.”

“Interesting. You are considered the cofounder of the DommyMommy theory and lifestyle. How does that make you feel?”

“I’m not really a cofounder. I just happened to be there when it was founded. I’m a witness. A participant. I can’t claim ownership.”

“You defend it. You helped shape it. Why not own that?”

He shook his head. “Jasmine wouldn’t like me saying this… but I don’t know about cofounder. She came up with it. But the people who actually live that way, day to day... that’s what turned it into something real. “

“What about the court cases? Charges of fraud? Criminal negligence?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “She was found innocent in all of those instances.”

“But her own accounts with you were used as evidence for the prosecution. At any point did you feel the need to become involved?”

“Her lawyers didn’t seem to need me.”

“And the prosecution?”

“They were misguided. That’s why they couldn’t prove it.”

Chloe made a small circling motion with her finger toward production. “One moment. Let’s take a fifteen-minute break. Restroom, water, stretch your legs.”

Boom mics lowered. Cameramen immediately reached for their phones, posture collapsing out of performance. John took a sip of water.

Chloe flipped through her notes, quickly eliminating questions that no longer seemed relevant. She had anticipated that Jasmine had embellished—or outright lied. Now it seemed as though John was corroborating everything. Even the efficacy.

As everyone settled back into place, she leaned toward him.

“This is your chance, John. People already think they know this story. You can correct the record now.”

She placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. She had already begun editing this in her head. And it wasn’t cutting the way she needed.

“Yeah. My story. Okay.”

The clapboard snapped again. They were rolling.

“Did Jasmine ever hurt you?”

“Of course she did. You read the book, yes?”

“Is there anything she did that hurt you that wasn’t in the book?”

He traced a finger around his knee, thoughtful. “She got to know me really well. Better than anyone else in my life. Saw me. Really saw me. But she still underestimated me. I don’t think she ever got to the bottom of my soul like she thought she did.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Hm… we’re two sides of the same coin. She didn’t really look at herself that way. Not close. So I don’t think she knew how to look at that in me either.”

“I’ve interviewed Dr. Timothy Morrison many times. He’s expressed great concern for your psychological well-being after Jasmine. Have you seen the psychological profile he wrote about you?”

“I’ve read it. Who wouldn’t?”

“What are your thoughts?”

“Well, I didn’t fall apart, return to prison, go on back-to-back benders, or go back to my sexual relationship with Jasmine.”

“After the separation, did you seek out other women to dominate you?”

His head snapped, shaking violently. “No. No. No one is like her.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, you sound like a man still in love.” Chloe touched a finger lightly to her lips, offering an empathetic smile.

“I am. I miss her. The taste of her spit. The arches of her feet. The smell of her armpits at the end of the day. The little sounds she made when she slept. The… evil little things she would think up.”

His voice wandered, dreamy, almost reverent.

Chloe narrowed her eyes.

“So nothing about it was damaging? Not once?”

“No.”

Silence settled over the room, heavy and wrong.

Chloe nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

She could feel the Emmy slipping away.

She had made pop stars cry, pastors confess affairs, actors unravel on camera—yet here she was, being stonewalled by a man who refused to break in the expected way. The interview felt eerily familiar, like the many times she had sat across from Jasmine.

It was time to pivot.

If she couldn’t expose contradiction, maybe she could reframe the narrative—focus on influence, dependency, the possibility of manipulation. Let the audience draw its own conclusions.

“Have you seen Jasmine since the separation?”

“Of course. She’s everywhere now—on TV, in magazines, online. Everywhere.”

“Have you gotten over her?”

“Hm…” He closed his eyes briefly. “I don’t know if anyone ever gets over someone like that. Not when they become a part of you. It’s like losing an arm. You accept it. You acclimate. But you’re not… just over it.”

“One more question, and then we’ll take a break.”

John nodded.

“I’m interviewing Jasmine next week. Do you have a message for her?”

“I do.”

He stood, reaching into his pocket, and pulled out what appeared to be a photograph. He placed it into her outstretched hand.

Chloe examined it. A nude female figure—something like an old sculpture, classical in style.

“Can this”—she held up the glossy paper—“be shown on camera? On the record?”

“Yeah. But I think only she would understand it.”

Chloe held the image a moment longer than necessary.

Not because she understood it, but because she couldn’t.

Maybe this still could be the year. The Emmy was still within reach.

And yet, beneath that thought, small and almost imperceptible, was the feeling that something had slipped past her unnoticed.

The story he told wasn’t the one she wanted.

And worse—

it didn’t feel like the whole truth.