Monday, August 24, 2009

Reality Show.

The first thing happened in the kitchen. Eight, maybe nine, months ago. I was sitting at the table. The morning sun was pushing its way through the window, keen on keeping me company. I drank a hot coffee from a cracked mug. My fingers were dripping with butter from the toast I had eaten, and I was smearing butter all over the keys as I typed. But I didn't care. The machine never mattered to me so much. It was just what I needed to do what I had to do.
That morning what I had to do was write a script, and I was flying. The week before I'd been drinking with a friend of mine who was in the movie business and we'd spoken about the way things were and what we wanted to do and now I was writing a script and who knows. Maybe all that. Anyway, it was the morning and that's what I was doing.
I'd been going for half an hour or so when she came in to the kitchen. I looked up because I had to look up, because when a girl like that walks into the kitchen, you'd look up too. I look up and she's all cat and sleep and skin and stretch and those curves and I'm an instant boil and it's all I can do to think back to the script. Because the script is important, see? Because I'm thinking if a guy like me can finish a script, then maybe a girl who looks like that...
I'm thinking things like that, you know? So I go back to writing the script.
"What are you doing?" she asks, and there's something in her voice. I recognise it. It usually means, I've been asleep so you must be on the internet writing to other women.
"I'm starting on the script, baby" I say.
"Can I read it?"
"Well, I guess, I mean, I've only got a couple of pages, you know"
"I'd really like to read it"
"Well, okay, go right ahead."
I don't really want her to read it. I don't want to break my flow. I've got a good rhythm going and the characters are there with me and I want to write all fucking day. Or fuck all day if I'm not going to write. But I got that icy tone in her voice, and I'll be lucky if there's any more writing, let alone fucking.
"WOW" she says. "This is fucking amazing. I'm blown away. When did you think of this?"
She catches me by surprise. I blush.
"I don't know...this morning, I guess..."
"Is there a part for me?" she asks.
"I said, is there a part for me?"
"Um, I don't know sexy, I've literally only written two pages, I haven't even thought that far..."
"YOU PRICK", she screams and pouts and a storm gathers on her forehead. "You know I'm going for auditions and now you've written this, and you're going to be famous and you're going to leave me, when you know all I ever wanted to do was act. You fucking prick, I hate you, I fucking hate you."
She stomps out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. I sit back at the keyboard and let my fingers rest for a moment. I try and get back in to the flow, but nothing will come. So I roll a cigarette and walk outside. Sit on the back step and smoke. And I stare at the morning sky and catch the last of the fading stars as they disappear into the light.


  1. You might want to check if there is a penis as well as a storm on her forehead because she sounds like a dickhead.