Honestly, I hate it.

Part of my job is that you have a number of years to establish yourself. You work up the courage and put it all out there. And then it's over, and you have to go on the job hunt, find a new symbiote, and move on as if nothing happened. There is so little loyalty.

"I need you over here," she said. "I need you to admire my work."

It was quite something. It used color energetically, and the form was interesting. It felt vaguely like it was supposed to be me, but I don't have those kinds of eyes. Still, for fingerpaintings, it was a passable representation.

"Do you like it?" she asked.

I nodded.

"Good, I am going to sell it for a lot."

Perhaps she could. You never know with such things. Perhaps if she became famous later, someone might want it as an oddity, a record of this moment in time.

"I wish you could paint, but I guess there can only be one artist."

If only that were true. I had been an artist before. I had been part of a creative team. I was inspired and guided in performing my craft. But this one called all the shots, so I was just along for the ride. It had been that way since my start date.

"It must be tough not being creative."

It was fine except for all the talk and insults.

"Next time, I'll get a better imaginary friend."

Perhaps I would as well.