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“Psst! If you open your eyes and turn around you’ll see something awesome!”
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Rebecca had been following the jazz pianist for weeks. She’d wait in the rain by backstage doors only to have him walk by without noticing her. She waited and waited for some recognition, but it never came. Finally, she devised a plan. She would lean over his piano as he played with a cigarette. He would have to comment on the smoke billowing from her lips, the smell of burning wafting off her fingertips, and the ash falling upon his fingers as he played. He would look up at her and finally have to say that he had seen her before—and that he secretly loved her but had been to shy to speak. It was a foolproof plan, except no one ever told Rebecca that the pianist was blind—and hated smokers.
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Julie Andrews: Bitch, please tell me you got the shot. This bird is about to poop on my hand.
Director: Um, Ms. Andrews, please don’t refer to me as “bitch”. Also, the bird is not real. It’s a mechanical dummy.
Julie Andrews: That’s weird. Because it came alive at the sound of my angelic voice. I can give life to animate objects through song, do you want to bet that I can take life with my voice, too?
Director: (to crew) Let’s get this fucking shot! NOW!
-
Martine had taken Oprah’s advice. If she could not afford a trip to the beaches of Bali to find herself, she would use creativity to make her own personal Bali upon her rooftop. She had not found herself yet, but she had discovered the Marconi twins’ secret cigarette stash, a pile of empty beer cans and a splattering of bird poop atop her head. Perhaps she should have brought up her yoga mat. Yes, yoga was the reason this wasn’t working.
-
As Pascal watched his captain take her shoes off and listen to them like they were conch shells, he realized the ship’s crew was entirely wrong about her. She wasn’t unable to captain a ship because she was a woman; she was unable to captain a ship because she was insane.
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Caroline felt foolish. As it turned out, Rudolpho was not a vampire. He was just a pale boy with a biting fetish. Instead of immortality, the only thing she had gotten out of seducing him was a sore neck.
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“Ew…Air conditioning spit.”
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“Are you sure you don’t want to go back to the ball?” Sergio asked nervously.
Brigid bit her lip and sighed. “No. I want to dance out here—with you—under the stars.”
“There are rats out here and I’m pretty sure that homeless man over there is dead.”
“The rats aren’t hurting anyone and that homeless man is just drunk. I saw vomit hiccup out of his mouth.” Brigid pleaded, “Oh, please, Sergio! Just twirl me under the moon!”
He tried one last time. “The gutter water is going to ruin your train. We really ought to get out of the street.”
Brigid declared, “What use is a train if you aren’t going to take it somewhere?”
They danced together for another thirteen minutes, until they were interrupted by Sergio’s wife—a bitter woman who lived on that very street. Brigid’s luck with men was not improving, but she was still too romantic and far too rich to care.
-
When Marlena was lonely she would dress herself up in her favorite black dress and pretend to be going somewhere. When Marlena was really lonely she’d leave her apartment in her favorite black dress and go up on the roof. There, she would fall asleep. The hope was always that when she woke up a fabulous roof top party would be happening around her.
It usually worked because she lived in Brooklyn. When it didn’t work, Marlena just got lonelier.
-
“Yes, the cafe is open. No, you can’t come in. Why not? Well, funny story, really. Someone knit this beige dress around me and now I can’t move. Oh, you feel sorry for me? You shouldn’t. You’re the one who loses today. No pumpkin spice coffee for you!”
