Wishes Washed Away
three.
"Who are you?" I ask, hands on my hips. I can just see the cameras rolling now.
This is a joke, right?
"I asked you first." He frowns as beads of water drip from his dark, wet hair. The lens focuses in on his small face. "I think you should answer my question."
I smirk, seeing this silly movie planned out in my mind. It's all so cinematic. Silly how the movie business can just kill great moments in your life. Not that this is one of them, but you get what I mean. "Honey, you don't have much authority in...that." I point to the makeshift kilt consisting of a towel. "Now, I think it's in your best interest to answer my question."
He grunts, pouting like a child. He takes in a deep breath. "I am Brendon Urie, owner of this wonderful place." He holds his arms in the air. "Behold, the beautiful kingdom of Brendon Urie." I think of the dirty dishes and piles of newspapers stacked in the living room. Definitely a wonderful kingdom.
"I'm going to use your phone." I go back down the stairs, in pursuit of some sort of telephone. Brandon's yelling at me in the background, but I ignore him. I finally find it beneath a stack of papers, and I dial Anthony's number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"'Lo?"
"Anthony, it's me, Maggie."
"Oh, hey, darling. I'm a little busy, so can you please make this quick?"
"Well, I was wondering--"
Click.
I turn the phone off and check my sidekick. More stupid messages from Raquel and her "new boyfriend", not that I care. Edward's sending me photos of the new set. Brandon finally arrives in the kitchen. "Hey, I have a sidekick just like that one!" he says, smiling. He's dressed in drain-pipe jeans and a white t-shirt. "We have matching phones!"
I roll my eyes at his childish behavior. Back off, Brandon Urine. "Don't you have things to do? Like, I don't know...going to work, for starters?"
He scowls at me. "Honey, do you not know who I am?"
I skim Raquel's messages. She borrowed my designer jeans and ruined them. Spilled wine on the left thigh and stretched them out. Stupid bitch. One-of-a-kind pants ruined. "Uhm...no." I sit at the glass kitchen table with stacks of old newspapers and continue to check my messages. The new set looks pretty good; the apartment looks really nice, with expensive leather couches too. Nice chandelier...looks like something my mother bought at an antique auction.
"I'm the singer in a band called Panic! At the Disco. Ever heard of 'em?" He's just waiting for me to say yes. I disappoint him by shaking my head. He frowns at me. "Good God, woman. Get with the times."
"Brandon, it's not like you're Madonna, or Rihanna even. Don't get full of yourself." He looks at me with surprise as I continue to check my emails. "Now, can you be a doll and get me a glass of water? I'm absolutely parched."
He grumbles under his breath and fills up the glass with tap water.
Ick.
"Thanks," I say flippantly. I don't take a sip. Tap water is absolutely disgusting. Prefer mineral water. I put my sidekick down and look up to see him sitting across from me.
"It's Brendon." No one ever corrects me with that tone of voice. I'll change that. "Anyway, how'd you get here? And you still haven't told me your name."
"Anthony gave me the key."
He squints at me. "Anthony? My landlord, Anthony?" I shrug. How am I to know if Anthony's his landlord or not? "Why would he do that?"
"I don't know."
"And..?"
"'And' what?" I ask, crossing my arms against my chest. "I already answered one question." He rolls his eyes.
"I was just wondering what your name was, before I dub thee 'Snobby Bitch.'" Oh, how clever. Like I haven't heard that one before. My smile says: Let's be civil. "Well?" He waits.
"Maggie."
"Well, Maggie, where are you from?"
"Baltimore, Maryland; I'm an actress and model, so I currently reside in Hollywood." Nothing special. Started small, worked my way up without sleeping around. Surprising I got this far just by kissing some asses.
"Have you dated Michael Phelps?"
"No." Why does everyone ask that question?
"Oh, come on. You've got to have some sort of juicy secret you're not allowed to share with the press." Brendon frowns, arms on the table. "Come on. Out with it!"
"I'm stuck in a small townhouse in Summerlin, Nevada for three and a half weeks with no way to contact anyone." Not to mention I'm stuck with an obnoxious idiot who likes asking stupid questions. Give me stupidity.
Flash.
Give me annoyance.
Flash.
Give me "get me out of here, you stupid son of a bitch director."
Flash.
This is a joke, right?
"I asked you first." He frowns as beads of water drip from his dark, wet hair. The lens focuses in on his small face. "I think you should answer my question."
I smirk, seeing this silly movie planned out in my mind. It's all so cinematic. Silly how the movie business can just kill great moments in your life. Not that this is one of them, but you get what I mean. "Honey, you don't have much authority in...that." I point to the makeshift kilt consisting of a towel. "Now, I think it's in your best interest to answer my question."
He grunts, pouting like a child. He takes in a deep breath. "I am Brendon Urie, owner of this wonderful place." He holds his arms in the air. "Behold, the beautiful kingdom of Brendon Urie." I think of the dirty dishes and piles of newspapers stacked in the living room. Definitely a wonderful kingdom.
"I'm going to use your phone." I go back down the stairs, in pursuit of some sort of telephone. Brandon's yelling at me in the background, but I ignore him. I finally find it beneath a stack of papers, and I dial Anthony's number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
"'Lo?"
"Anthony, it's me, Maggie."
"Oh, hey, darling. I'm a little busy, so can you please make this quick?"
"Well, I was wondering--"
Click.
I turn the phone off and check my sidekick. More stupid messages from Raquel and her "new boyfriend", not that I care. Edward's sending me photos of the new set. Brandon finally arrives in the kitchen. "Hey, I have a sidekick just like that one!" he says, smiling. He's dressed in drain-pipe jeans and a white t-shirt. "We have matching phones!"
I roll my eyes at his childish behavior. Back off, Brandon Urine. "Don't you have things to do? Like, I don't know...going to work, for starters?"
He scowls at me. "Honey, do you not know who I am?"
I skim Raquel's messages. She borrowed my designer jeans and ruined them. Spilled wine on the left thigh and stretched them out. Stupid bitch. One-of-a-kind pants ruined. "Uhm...no." I sit at the glass kitchen table with stacks of old newspapers and continue to check my messages. The new set looks pretty good; the apartment looks really nice, with expensive leather couches too. Nice chandelier...looks like something my mother bought at an antique auction.
"I'm the singer in a band called Panic! At the Disco. Ever heard of 'em?" He's just waiting for me to say yes. I disappoint him by shaking my head. He frowns at me. "Good God, woman. Get with the times."
"Brandon, it's not like you're Madonna, or Rihanna even. Don't get full of yourself." He looks at me with surprise as I continue to check my emails. "Now, can you be a doll and get me a glass of water? I'm absolutely parched."
He grumbles under his breath and fills up the glass with tap water.
Ick.
"Thanks," I say flippantly. I don't take a sip. Tap water is absolutely disgusting. Prefer mineral water. I put my sidekick down and look up to see him sitting across from me.
"It's Brendon." No one ever corrects me with that tone of voice. I'll change that. "Anyway, how'd you get here? And you still haven't told me your name."
"Anthony gave me the key."
He squints at me. "Anthony? My landlord, Anthony?" I shrug. How am I to know if Anthony's his landlord or not? "Why would he do that?"
"I don't know."
"And..?"
"'And' what?" I ask, crossing my arms against my chest. "I already answered one question." He rolls his eyes.
"I was just wondering what your name was, before I dub thee 'Snobby Bitch.'" Oh, how clever. Like I haven't heard that one before. My smile says: Let's be civil. "Well?" He waits.
"Maggie."
"Well, Maggie, where are you from?"
"Baltimore, Maryland; I'm an actress and model, so I currently reside in Hollywood." Nothing special. Started small, worked my way up without sleeping around. Surprising I got this far just by kissing some asses.
"Have you dated Michael Phelps?"
"No." Why does everyone ask that question?
"Oh, come on. You've got to have some sort of juicy secret you're not allowed to share with the press." Brendon frowns, arms on the table. "Come on. Out with it!"
"I'm stuck in a small townhouse in Summerlin, Nevada for three and a half weeks with no way to contact anyone." Not to mention I'm stuck with an obnoxious idiot who likes asking stupid questions. Give me stupidity.
Flash.
Give me annoyance.
Flash.
Give me "get me out of here, you stupid son of a bitch director."
Flash.