It’s late at the hotel bar. Late, but not too late. There are still a dozen or so other patrons about the purple hazed decor, all broken off into pairs.

Shawn Mendes’s version of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You” wraps, followed by Prince’s version of “Nothing Compares 2 You”.

 You know when you're behind a slow driver and you pull over slightly to the right to let all the road-ragers behind you know it's not you? It's kinda like that.

She smiles, which surprises him. He is surprised because he usually gets a good laugh out of that analogy. Instead, she gives him one of those forced, pressed lipped kinds of smiles.

I’m sorry, I was … this music … this song. I sometimes –

– no, I’m sorry. I’m rambling. I sometimes –

– I don't drive much is all, she says to save face. She further adds, Not at all actually. 

Big city girl, huh?

Refocused, she playfully waves her hotel key card at him.

Put that Chekhov down, he demands in playful return.

To this, she laughs.

So people complain to you all day?

Everywhere I go.

He takes a sip of his Old Fashion.

They say they want access, but the real issue is permission. What they are allowed to see and do and what they’re NOT allowed to see and do.

He takes another sip to put himself on pause. He wonders if he should keep the rest of his diatribe to himself, especially since they agreed not to talk about work. I’ve been holding this in for too long, he thinks to himself, justifying the blurt ahead,

We live in such success excess in the United States. So much so that the average American is shocked these days when you tell them they are not allowed to see this. That they are not allowed to do that. Even if such access restriction is best for all parties involved, including themselves.

She thinks of holding her hotel key card up again -- "Chekhov's Gun" as they've nicknamed her personal access device. Her hotel key card is supposed to be a red flag to be held up when one of them is telling a story that is beyond the personal upon which they promised to focus. 

She decides to keep her key card on the bar. This idea of permissions has always intrigued her for reasons never clear to her in the past.

What I’m trying to say is that 99 times out of 100, and that’s probably sugarcoating it, I do what I'm told. Exactly what I’m told. I codify the lists of data. I categorize permissions.

Most of my day is filled with Linux commanding -rw-r--r-- or drwx-r-xr-x. This gives the Brooks Brothers access to the financial quarterlies and the Mac Air Pros access to the sales figures by target audience. My coding limits the C Suites to Incident Summary Reports and other topline one-pagers. Most of the upper echelon like these limitations. They just want their news in bullet point form.

Of course, on occasion, the newly promoted stomp into my office and demand access to the backup data that support these incident reports. As if they can Batman on their own what Jokers in the company are poised to fall for the latest phishing scam.

She smiles. More genuinely it seems this time. 

That’s when you slide to the right to let them know it’s not you. You explain to them that it’s the car in front of you that decides who gets what permission.

He smiles back, relieved to know that she did enjoy his earlier analogy.

Exactly, he confirms.

You operate on the principle of least privilege, right?

Her question is more of a statement.

You're familiar with the concept?

I've been familiarizing myself.

Wait a minute. Are you here for the Infosec World Conference? That's what I'm --

– he cuts himself off. Instead of continuing with that line of questioning, he finishes his drink. This time he honors their earlier agreement not to get too personal, not to talk about their jobs.

I’m sorry about asking about your work.

She shakes her head in a “no need to apologize” fashion. At the same time, she slides her two fingers off her hotel key card. She looks up to their bartender and raises the same two fingers, politely signaling for more Old Fashions.

Sinead O’Connor’s version of “All Apologies” comes on next.

She finds herself swept up in the music once more. She shakes her head once more. This time to herself. This time to snap herself back into the moment before drifting too far away. Though to do so, she proffers the following without the help of a transition sentence,

I can’t believe they never got along,

His face turns into a question mark.

Say again?

She points to the abstract musical notes about them.

Sinead O’Connor and Prince. They shared a song. A beautiful song. That previous song.

Her mind’s eye sees one of her favorite set of lyrics scroll across,

 “All the flowers that you planted Mama/

In the backyard/

All died when you went away.”

I read somewhere that Sinead O’Connor’s mother kicked her out of the house when she was 12 years old and forced her daughter to live in the backyard by herself for over two weeks.

He is still a bit jarred by the abrupt change in topic, unable yet to contribute to this new topic.

She notices and continues, Sinead O’Connor and Prince connected in a way few of us will ever understand. His layered lyrics, her emotional immediacies. And yet they never came around. They never got along. Those two beautiful, once-in-a-lifetime generational artists could not get past …

… just as quick as she switched topics, she suddenly trails off.

All caught up now, he reengages,

He was probably hurt that she never really asked him to use his song. From what I recall, she kinda just covered “Nothing Compares 2 U” and ran away with it.  

You mean he was pissed she never asked him for permission?

She gives him a wry smile just as their drinks arrive.

I get it. It’s got to be surprising to hear your song sung by someone you didn’t expect would ever sing it. And then seeing the song getting the overwhelming reception that it did.

She takes a welcomed sip before elaborating.

But as an artist, as one of the true elevated artists of our time, he had to know deep inside that she gave that song the kind of life he would’ve loved to give himself.

He stops mid-sip, excited to contribute some more.

This makes me think of the “Tesseract”. The version as explained in the novel of the same name by Alex Garland, another one of those generational talents if you ask me. He explained the phenomenon of the Tesseract in that the 1st dimension can’t fathom what it’s like in the 2nd dimension, who in turn can’t comprehend WTF the 3rd dimension is all about.

He fears he is rambling once more. He hopes she is following.

Then there are the two of us. Well, me at least. I, and many like me, cannot fathom what it’s like to live in the world of these elevated artists. We can’t fathom what it’s like to make the kind of art they create. They are like the 4th dimension to me.

To me too, she assures.

He smiles, glad that she is with him.

Maybe, just maybe, Prince heard her version of “Nothing Compares 2 U” and was taken aback. Like we are taken aback when we hear “Purple Rain” or “Manic Monday” or even “Batdance”.  Maybe Sinead O’Connor’s version of his song was his 4th dimension. Something he never thought was possible. The song’s impact, Sinead’s impact … maybe they were impossible for even him to comprehend. Maybe she was his Tesseract and it shook him.

She raises her glass.

Mabuhay, she says as they toast.

Long life, he interprets like before.

That makes sense. A lot of sense as to why they didn’t get along in the beginning. In the 90’s. What doesn’t make sense is why they could never make peace with each other. Beyond their music, they were so much alike. Their parents were so horrible to …

… she trails off again like a sudden end to side one of the album, not sure why she is stilting so.

He picks up on her train of thought, at least he thinks he does,

Prince’s father kicked him out of the house at 12 years old too.

Exactly, she replies, similar to the way he did earlier.

When she died, I looked up her performance at the Bob Dylan 30th anniversary tribute concert in '92. The one where the crowd tried to boo her off stage for what she did on Saturday Night Life two weeks earlier.

She barely reacts this time despite knowing full well the performance he is talking about, outside of a barely noticeable shake of her head.

He continues, I loved that she stood her ground. I loved that she told her band to stop trying to play. To stop trying to connect with that naive crowd that night. Then she sang one of the best renditions of Bob Marley's "War" I've ever heard.

She raises her glass again, though more to herself this time.

To peace, love, and understanding, she says before she drinks, before she adds, 

My husband was at that Bob Dylan tribute concert. He told me that the boo’ing wasn't about the pope pic thing. Well … correction. That wasn't the only thing the crowd had against her that night. He said they boo'ed her because she persuaded the venue to suspend its tradition of singing the National Anthem at the start of the concert.

Did your husband, was he one of those that –

– he stops himself once more, realizing the insensitivity of the question he almost asked.

She picks up on his intention and asks for him.

You want to know if my husband boo’ed Sinead O’Connor?

Before he could make up another question that he meant to ask, she gives him a Hindi'co Alum type shrug.

I don’t know. I never asked him. Did you ever … together as a husband and a wife … or maybe just on your own … you know, decide it's better if you don't talk about certain things? You ever do that with your wife? Or do that without her even knowing? 

He nods, All of the above.

She sips to try to settle herself before pushing on with her now therapeutic storyshare.

In 2022, during what turned out to be her last tour, she said that her ideal audience would be one that is open to having a spiritual, almost religious experience.

He shakes his head at the irony.

Did you know she prayed before every show? She prayed if you could believe that. After everything she went through, she still believed in God.

She prayed for a little forgiveness. To be a little better than her last performance. And for the ability to transform those who wish to be transformed ... for the ability to be like a priest in that regard of all things.

He jumps in, taking this conversation to an even heavier level,

I read that she was abused by her mother. Then she was sent to a Dublin reformatory institution where she was abused just as bad.

She nods, affirming that she read that as well.

Out of seemingly nowhere, she next confesses,

I'm not here for the conference.

He is jarred by this next sharp shift in their conversation.

Oh, no?

My husband is. He is a CISO for … well, let me just say a Fortune 500 company.

She finishes her drink. She signals to the bartender for yet another. He does the same.

I'm a lawyer.

She looks at her hotel key card. She thinks of raising a flag on herself, but ignores herself and continues.

Just last month, I left the law firm I had worked at for over 20 years to work for a think tank called Child USA. We provide free legal support for victims of childhood sexual abuse.

The Old Fashions come with haste as if the bartender knows she needs the fuel to burn past this path.

Did you know that over half of the states in our country have ridiculously antiquated laws when it comes to the area of child sex abuse? For example, the Statute of Limitations for CSA cases across half our country is five years or less.

He shakes his head "no" and then takes a long drink.

That means that victims of child sex abuse cannot take their abuser to court if they are over the age of 23 ... no matter what evidence they may have.

I had no idea. That is … I can’t even imagine.

Me neither.

It is her turn to take a long drink. She suddenly realizes the reason for her PTSD driven melancholy earlier.

Last week, a fellow Child USA lawyer named Kathryn Robb told me of a study she helped conduct, revealing that Survivors cannot come to grips with their past until about the age of 50. That's the age, on average, that victims first come forward with their truth.

She goes on to explain that the reason the Statute of Limitations is so low in most of our United States is because of the lobbyists from major national institutions such as the USOC, the Boys Scouts of America, and the Catholic Church. They are all covering up for decades of crimes.

He sees her head lower, almost drained. He tries to help.

Wasn’t Sinead O'Connor around 50 when she posted her cry for help on Facebook ... when she revealed her deep dark thoughts on committing suicide?

She starts to lift her glass, but fails to do so, as if her rocks class now weighed too much. She starts to realize the gravity of all these reveals. She starts to realize that she may not be talking about Sinead O’Connor nor about any of the other Survivors she has met in the last few weeks.

He tries to help her storytell some more, realizing that she is starting to detach once more from this moment.

I bet she was triggered by the age of her kids, which were the same age as she was when she was first abused.

An eerie silence follows.

He thinks of his own kid. He remembers the school newsletter from last semester about the dismissal of her school's Driver's Ed teacher due to "sexual misconduct". He was grateful his daughter was too young to take that class.

 He finally sees her one hand covering her other. He sees that she is trying to cover her hand that is starting to shake uncontrollably. He sees her head lowered even further to hide the welling of her eyes.

 He does not know what to do besides take another sip of his drink. Liquid courage he hopes to find.

 It works as he sees his right hand reach out to her trembling hand. He makes sure it is a gesture of permission. For permission to connect.

 She allows the touch.

 He holds her trembling hand until it stills. Then with his left hand, he lifts her head to ask for the hardest forwards of truths,

 He doesn't know, does he? About you. About you and your … parents?

He can only guess that she is around 50 like him, like Sinead O'Connor and Prince at the time of their deaths, like the age many a Survivor of Childhood Sexual Abuse when they first come forward to reveal the truth of their tragic upbringing.

Parent, she corrects in a whisper. My father.

And this is … that is one of the things you choose never to talk about with your husband. You never talked to him about your father. About how he … how he abused you. Is that right?

She does not confirm this time. But when she lets go of her hand, he knows he is 100% right.

 He suspects she is going to go for her hotel key card. For Chekhov's Gun. He doesn’t blame her. He has crossed the line for sure.

 Instead, she uses her hand to steady herself, to help her stand. She stands up and comes to him. She comes to him and hugs him.

 They hold each other tight for what seems like a concert length. In reality, it was just long enough to hear the end of “All Apologies”.  At the end of the song, a single, solitary tear escapes and rolls down her face.