Somewhere in the background, his secretary was talking, her voice drowning into the dull hum of shoulds and musts, appointments and responsibilities. On his screen and in the inbox and in the voicemail and at home were a dozen messages growing increasingly distressed.
Where are you?
What are you doing?
Do you know what time it is?
He was still wearing the slim strip of leather around his ankles — tiny little chiming noises followed him as he moved, which he was always doing now, because sitting down wasn’t quite an option.
This new version of therapy was everything he’d needed.
Already he was looking forward to the evening appointment, and it meant that he was simply tuning the rest of the world out, including the occasional message from Eve that remained in the background.
While he did things that would cause most everyone else to blush, scream or walk away and never come back, the loneliest program in the world filled her time by attempting to create art out of her dreams, and if her body had been made to function that way, she might have wept.
