The Stenographers

"What do you do with yours? After work, you know?"

"Oh, mostly LLM training. They gobble it all up."

"They sure do. I'm writing something, so I sort of feed mine into that."

She's quite something with her device. Her eyes are always, earnestly locked on mine. It would be creepy if it wasn't so impressive. The difference between that touchscreen and her will has vanished. She's getting everything. With suitable punctuation. I know it.

I'm annoyed.

"Is there money in that?" She sounds a bit like a child and a bit like someone you wouldn't want a child to befriend. I had to look at my device to get that down. She must think I'm an utter fuckwit.

So it's unanimous.

"I don't know yet. I'm just having a look 'round at this point. I'm quite sure there's money in many, surprising places. I'll remember to look behind things."

She enjoyed that one. It took her a second to stop laughing quietly to herself to get it down. There may be hope. You know I am the sort of idiot who entertains that sort of thing, now and then. Masochism? Quixotic Idealism? I'm clicking a dead link of some kind.

"I doubt it. What are you writing, for nothing?"

Pride is a terrible thing. Just think: if someone happened to be innocently reading a story, and you, that is, your character, came out with a brilliant turn of phrase, or a scandalous confession, or a blasphemous diatribe, or a paean to fascism, what would the reader think of you then? She's thinking like that all the time, I'll bet. It's common.

Are you surprised?

Stills and mps were greenlit when we were messaging earlier. We just take them, without having to mention it. It's so much easier. Her surprise looks authentic every time.

"You look real." She's editing my portrait. She said that in a way I liked. I wonder how often she's said it that way, and to whom?

"Are you going to write about what's happening now, while we live together?" Does that have the ring of organic intelligence, or did her exocortex pipe that in just in time? Is she getting suggestions from her followers?

I like the player, not the game.

"I am. To whom do you vend?"

She doesn't hesitate for a second. Confidence? Complicity?

"I told you. LLM training." She's keeping score.

"Yes, but training for what? Billing? Interpretation of scripture? Psychological management?"

Not a break in the typing there either. She must be sure she's doing the right thing. I smell freshly baked bread and hot coffee. If I were an early morning, I'd be bearable.

Of course, I was looking down at my fingers every few seconds, just to paint the scene. Sometimes I try to get it straight in my head and then type, you know? The trouble is that then it seems curated, or even bespoke. You've got to get it down quickly and in an engrossing way, I guess. She could show me a thing or two.

"HR clearinghouses, mostly. Some therapeutic applications. At least one polling firm." That list. She's glad I asked.

"How long have you been side hustling with them?"

"Since college. Actually, during college for a few. Grad school is college, right?" Landmine. The silly question is supposed to make me feel comfortable with my own stupidity.

Redundant. I've got to do a cost/benefit analysis of italics and special characters and that kind of thing.

"I remember it that way, yes. Why couldn't you avoid this party?"

She's got all the bells and whistles all the time, I'm sure. For all I know, half of this will be underlined or italicized or bolded. And she never breaks eye contact. She's not fussed if I do, but she doesn't. Then again, I spend a lot of time looking down. My peripheral sucks. The corner of your eye can be useful, if it works properly.

All of this could be an mp, a moving picture, but I have a feeling that what she's getting down beats the mp every time. You can fake them so easily. She hasn't worried about money for a long while. Just look at her hair.

Millions of people who seem normal enjoy turning on a camera and making you feel embarrassed to be anyone, given who they are, don't they? Another member of our beautiful, human family. Drinking heavily and then chasing people who find you odd 'round a nightclub? Cooking something unfit to eat? Speaking to a pet, in a language the pet can barely understand, about the opera of your feelings? Just stop.

You can watch things, or you can read about what they're like. What's your first question, when your friend has a terrible, or a perfect, night? You don't want the scene. You want the part. That's why there's money in getting it down with style.

Not everything. Just enough to be a life.