Mynah

Mynah leans in the corner between the penthouse wall and window, a sheaf of printed-out draft lyrics in her hand, chewing the back end of a ball-point pen. The draft from the songwriter is promising, but she's rearranging a few things she thinks will suit her voice better, flow more naturally off her tongue. It's satisfying work, the little details, rolling words around her mouth, the soft scratch of her pen.

A knock at the door interrupts her, and her manager waits on her word to enter. The room is large, and he doesn't speak until he has walked most of the way around the bed to join her near the window. He tells her that the collaboration with Thessaly Pantelleria is off, and holds out his hand for the lyric sheets.

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She hands them over, her hand tightening slightly as the pages finish slipping between her fingers. She does not ask for reasons. Somewhere, probably very distant, a pile of money has shifted and a decision has changed. This is not rare or unfamiliar to her. The only novelty is that she has some idea, this time, of who might have set that slippage in motion.

She asks, and the manager confirms that there will be no further promotional opportunities with Phoebe. Mynah takes the pen out her mouth, wiggling it between her fingers, and turns to stare out at the city below the window, gleaming in the sun. When she says no more, the manager turns and leaves, his tread quiet on the plush carpet.