As I got out my pen and notebook, Dominique stares at my breasts. I guess being a black lesbian who'd clawed herself up to CEO by the age of twenty-eight didn't make Dominique less of a creep than the other tech-bros I've interviewed. We're in her mansion. She looks exactly like she did on the cover of *Deca Dance* magazine. Black suit pants and a crisp white shirt juxtaposing her dark skin, collar open, with the sleeves rolled above her elbows. She has a pixie cut, brown, except for blond highlights. On the couch opposite me, she sprawls back, 'man'-spreading, with an expression that could either be fascination or boredom. If she's bored already, why did she explicitly ask for me to interview her?
'Ms. Ka-' I begin.
'Call me Dominique,' she demanded.
'Dominique,' I say. 'Your-'
'You're single,' Dominique says.
I suppose the information is out there. I'm more shocked that a billionaire would bother to check my relationship status.
She continues: 'I'm thinking of settling down.'
And there's the reason she wanted this interview. She's not even asking me on a date. The entitled money-hoarder just tosses the thought in the air like she expects a servant to set up a date immediately.
I put my notebook back in handbag. 'Maybe I should leave.'
'You won't get your interview.' Dominque does not stir from her lazy posture.
'I'm not getting one at the moment,' I say. 'I'm getting a come on. If I wanted that, I could go to any old pub.' I walk to the exit of her living room, her stare like a laser on my arse.
'Alright,' she says. 'I'll let you interview me.'
'Let', she says? She fucking demanded it earlier this week.
I sit back down. Pen on memo pad, I start with a light question, 'You've disrupted the spice industry, the fitness industry, and the travel industry-' (and put countless people out of their jobs) '-what do you do to unwind?'
'Every week, I master a new skill,' says Dominique.
Typical self-improvement nut.
'This week,' she says, 'I mastered hypnosis.'
I laugh but play it off as a cough. 'I didn't think a CEO would waste -- spend their time learning party tricks.'
For the first time since I came in, Dominque smiles. Smirks, rather. She leans forward in her chair. 'I don't learn hypnosis for parties. It's therapeutic. I like feeling... in control.'
Dominique raises her finger in the air. Instinctively, my eyes follow it up. God, is she trying some fucking cruise ship routine on me.
'Your eyes are stuck on my fingertip. Your eyes follow my fingertip.' She sways her finger back and forth, up and down.
Yeah, my eyes do follow her finger. My eyes follow flies, doesn't mean flies have any control over me. Before I can pull my eyes away, she says:
'And now your name is gone.' She snaps her fingers. 'Your name vanishes from your mind.' ' SNAP! 'The more you try to remember, the harder it is to remember.' SNAP!
She lowers her hand. I look at her face, her smug, smirking face. She thinks she's made forget that my name is... My name is...
Surreptitiously, I write some names on my memo pad. 'Joan'? 'J' names sound right. 'Jackie'? No.
Dominique chuckles. 'Making someone forget their name takes no skill. You forget names all the time. It's very easy to make someone forget to do unconscious things. You just make them think about doing what they do unthinkingly, like holding a pen.'
My fingers clench my pen too hard. I scrawl on the page before my pen tumbles to the floor.
I reach down for the pen. 'V-very funn-'
'Even speaking, you can tie someone's tongue by making them think about where their tongue is, how their mouth's shaped.'
My tongue feels too big. I babble, 'nubyi, ka...'
How do I make an 'h' sound?
'It's the easiest thing in the world to control someone's unconscious skills,' Dominique says, 'especially if they're very intelligent and imaginative.'
