Morphine
Her- Televison
I have often felt that our lives are naught but a show for some sick omniscient viewer. It is nothing but a grand veneer, an expensive production, a television show, at best.
Are you watching?
Are you voting for your favorite contestant?
Or are you the star?
The studio audience?
The producer?
Are you watching?
He is the star. He lives and he loves and he get the last laugh, the perfect girl and his name first when the credits roll. He is the star and we all know that the perfect girl never is.
And me?
I’m the Director’s intern. He does not notice me or thank me for his low-fat cappuccino. I will not be mentioned in his acceptance speeches, nor will I be applauded in the last episode, but someday- Oh, someday- He’s going to listen to me. Someday, I’ll be calling all the shots.
Samuel knocks on my door at 7:03 this Friday evening, this first night of my new year. He knocks because he hates the sound my doorbell makes. Ding-dong! How pathetically common! Mrs. Jaime, in who’s name the ‘J’ is pronounced ‘H’ and the ‘e’ an ‘ay’, answers it. Just one of her innumerous duties as housekeeper.
“Oh, Mr. Atwood, how lovely to see you again!”
“And you.” Samuel replies, probably kissing her hand and causing a blush in the middle-aged Hispanic woman. “I wondered if…?”
“I’m ready!” I yell down the staircase, grabbing my beaten and torn Converse low tops. He grins, taking my hand as I reach the bottom and leading me out the door.
We stare at my oversized residence for a moment when the door closes. Stare at its tall white pillars and sweeping veranda, impeccable landscaping and windows that refuse to stare back. This place is the perfect soap opera setting.
I shove my shoes on without tying them.
Samuel drives us, in his kick-ass new Dodge Ram, speakers blaring, windows down, to a self-proclaimed ballroom in the City where my most-fancied mainstreamers are playing. We dance from the front row as they scream on stage. Not men with microphones and guitars, but spiders, catching in their glittered webs bejeweled flies.
And when they’ve finished consuming the crowd, we leave and find ourselves, myself, transplanted into a starless sky. Drowning, floating, with Samuel in the bed of his truck through the toxicity and pollution.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, bringing the reality of an empty, cracked parking lot.
“What?” I ask, very articulately.
“I love you.” And instantly I am thrust into the hideous orange spotlight. Instantly, I am the actress, I am the star. My eyes widen. I’ve forgotten my line.
He does not ask for, or expect, a reply. He merely kisses my cheek and pulls me closer. Ever innocent, ever chaste, his Christian morals truly do astound.
Are you watching?
Are you watching?
Are you voting for your favorite contestant?
Or are you the star?
The studio audience?
The producer?
Are you watching?
He is the star. He lives and he loves and he get the last laugh, the perfect girl and his name first when the credits roll. He is the star and we all know that the perfect girl never is.
And me?
I’m the Director’s intern. He does not notice me or thank me for his low-fat cappuccino. I will not be mentioned in his acceptance speeches, nor will I be applauded in the last episode, but someday- Oh, someday- He’s going to listen to me. Someday, I’ll be calling all the shots.
Samuel knocks on my door at 7:03 this Friday evening, this first night of my new year. He knocks because he hates the sound my doorbell makes. Ding-dong! How pathetically common! Mrs. Jaime, in who’s name the ‘J’ is pronounced ‘H’ and the ‘e’ an ‘ay’, answers it. Just one of her innumerous duties as housekeeper.
“Oh, Mr. Atwood, how lovely to see you again!”
“And you.” Samuel replies, probably kissing her hand and causing a blush in the middle-aged Hispanic woman. “I wondered if…?”
“I’m ready!” I yell down the staircase, grabbing my beaten and torn Converse low tops. He grins, taking my hand as I reach the bottom and leading me out the door.
We stare at my oversized residence for a moment when the door closes. Stare at its tall white pillars and sweeping veranda, impeccable landscaping and windows that refuse to stare back. This place is the perfect soap opera setting.
I shove my shoes on without tying them.
Samuel drives us, in his kick-ass new Dodge Ram, speakers blaring, windows down, to a self-proclaimed ballroom in the City where my most-fancied mainstreamers are playing. We dance from the front row as they scream on stage. Not men with microphones and guitars, but spiders, catching in their glittered webs bejeweled flies.
And when they’ve finished consuming the crowd, we leave and find ourselves, myself, transplanted into a starless sky. Drowning, floating, with Samuel in the bed of his truck through the toxicity and pollution.
“I love you,” he says suddenly, bringing the reality of an empty, cracked parking lot.
“What?” I ask, very articulately.
“I love you.” And instantly I am thrust into the hideous orange spotlight. Instantly, I am the actress, I am the star. My eyes widen. I’ve forgotten my line.
He does not ask for, or expect, a reply. He merely kisses my cheek and pulls me closer. Ever innocent, ever chaste, his Christian morals truly do astound.
Are you watching?
♠ ♠ ♠
This is probably my favorite scene with her... She's kind of a bitch.Then again, it's Samuel who REALLY makes it.