Wishes Washed Away

Give me dump.

Flash.

Give me shitty, discount buffet meal at the Luxor.

Flash.

Give me "God dammit, Brandon Urine".

Flash.

"See, Maggie? It's not so bad," Brendon coaxes, shoveling a truckload of pesto pasta salad into his mouth. "This is nice, right?"

"Don't talk to me when you're eating. It's disgusting." I push the small slice of carrot around my plate. "I should be shopping at Christian Dior, trying on Gucci sunglasses, purchasing jewelry for the red carpet." Why the hell am I having dinner at a hotel I'm not even spending the night in?

He swallows before inhaling more food. "Maggie, it's not the end of the world. You can't go shopping for expensive stuff--so what? You can still have fun; I can guarantee it."

"I have no money, except for the cash in my luggage." Five hundred dollars isn't enough for half an hour. There's no way this money can last three weeks. No fucking way. "I need credit cards. Checks. Wired money. Anything! This is driving me insane!" I stab the innocent carrot. "How can I be here and not purchase a single thing?"

"You'll just have to learn how to budget your money, Princess," Brendon says mockingly. "Maggie, you have to learn how to live without luxuries. It's possible--don't you know?"

"It's not possible for me," I grumble, finishing my vegetables. No exquisite steak dinners, quaint Belgian waffle mornings, or delicious lemon-pepper chicken lunches. How am I to live? Luxury is what I've been living in ever since the modeling career took off, and I've been stranded in this life of perfection ever since my acting career escalated.

"You're eating meat." He crinkles his nose at my slice of steak. "Why?" Vegetarian lasagna. Steamed vegetables. Chow mein. Spaghetti with vegetarian sauce. More pasta salad.

"Because I'm a carnivore, rabbit boy." I ignore his look of disgust and eat. "They're raised for slaughter anyway."

"You're awful. Do you know how farmers treat those animals? Maggie, you really ought to know what you're eating."

"Fruits are swollen ovaries, but you still eat those." Brendon gags. "I don't know why you have to fight with me on eating meat." I slice off a piece and wave it in his face. He jerks his head back, furrowing his brow. "It's better than eating a human, right?"

"You're still eating something that used to live, eat, and breathe." He resumes eating his meal. "Whatever. Eating animals is your issue. It's not like I can convert you in a day."

"Whatever you say, rabbit boy." I set my now-empty plate aside. "I'm grabbing dessert with chocolate in it." I strut to the dessert section and reach for a slice of cake and a brownie. Screw my daily calorie intake--I'll go running tomorrow or something. Besides, it's one day. I'm not the fattening type. As I stroll back to the table, a waiter stops me.

"Ma'am, aren't you that actress dating Edward Norton?" he asks, anxious. I shrug. Lies spread like wildfire. "Please, will you autograph my picture?" He hastily unfolds a crumpled paper from his pocket. "To Maurice." To Maurice it is. I hand it back to him, and he thanks me graciously as I wave goodbye. Brendon raises his eyebrows.

"Edward Norton? Isn't he old?" He scowls. "You're too young to be dating a guy in his early forties."

"I'm allowed to date whomever I want." I take a bite out of the brownie. "Help yourself, but savor it." Brendon devours the cake. Men can't appreciate things.

"I'm going to grab one of everything!" He rushes off to his sugar-high doom.

"Don't get sick!" I yell. I roll my eyes. It's like telling a child not to touch something. He brings back an armful of mousse, brownies, cakes, Jell-os...Brendon sets them down and slurps up the gelatin first.

"Mm. Man, I haven't had this sort of stuff since I was a kid." He grins, taking a bite out of the green and blue. "Brings back some good memories."

"Yeah, sure." I monitor his calorie intake, but after the third slice of cake, I've lost count. I'm not sure how he does it. How can someone eat like that and still stay stick-thin? Could it be the all-time favorite method of most female models? Bulimia, possibly?

Brendon feels sick, but is apparently well enough to drive. "You're used to being chauffeured around, so I might as well drive. Can't have my little Princess complaining about the traffic." He groans. "Ugh. Too much chocolate."

"What did I tell you?" I snatch the keys from him and start up the Volvo. "I can drive. Just direct me." I back out of the parking lot and onto the main road, passing by the Bellagio. I can feel my heart shatter. "Well?" I bark.

"Go straight. I'll tell you when to turn." More groaning, so I slap his arm. He stops. "God, you don't have to be so violent."

I growl, and he silences. I go straight for a while, and Brendon eventually points to the suburbs. After swerving this way and that, attempting to find the small house, we finally find it and pull into the driveway. "You're never driving again," he scolds, roughing grabbing my suitcases and heading inside. "You can't drive."

"You can't give directions!" I retort, reaching for the last bag and slamming the trunk shut. "You're never giving directions again!"

"Oh, like you can do any better? You don't even live here!"

"That's why they invented maps, fucktard!"

"Fucktard? Way to be childish, Maggie." He stomps up the stairs. "You can go do whatever the fuck broke actresses do. Like I give a shit. I tried helping you out, but you can't even appreciate the things people give to you for free!" Brendon slams his door shut.

Give me infuriated.

Flash.

Give me bitch.

Flash.

Give me "fuck you, Brendon".

Flash.