Page 11 of Erik

Something about this woman summons images to my mind that I’ve often dismissed as illusions. Over the past six years, I’ve convinced myself they were the product of my addled brain on drugs.

My foolish heart prefers to believe this singer, with her angelic voice, is the same angel who once visited me. Wishing to prove the old dreamer wrong, I continue to watch her pour her soul into the song.

A mystical crackle in the air raises the hair on my nape, while a phantom cord tugs at my midriff connecting us.

When the notes fade, she pries her eyes open, and raises an eyebrow at her companion as if pleading for an appraisal. She clutches the guitar against the bodice of her floral sundress with the same strengthen she would a lifeline in rough waters.

“That was a lovely song.” His words reach me as a whisper.

She flashes him a wide smile, but her hazel eyes remain cloaked, hiding secrets and grief not unlike mine. That thought hits me like a truckload of bricks. It’s all I can do not to scoop her up in my arms, cuddling her against my chest to alleviate her suffering.

Where did this come from?I shake my head and turn on my heels before either of them notices me.

Back in the trailer, I slump on the chair behind the desk. Best thing I’ve got to do after having identified the singer is forgetting all about her. Nothing good can come from me messing around with this innocent woman. I’d have destroyed her six years ago. I don’t deserve her now. Yes, I’ve put the drug-fueled days behind me, but they’re a drop in the ocean of issues I trudge in.

“Fuck,” I slam my palms on the glass top, before crossing my arms, and dropping my forehead on them.

After a moment of indulgence, I snap my head up, and fumble with the colorful pens sticking out of a metal holder. Picking a sleek black ballpoint, I jot tortured verses on a blank sheet of paper accompanied by musical notations.

It’s about time my muse of darkness returned.

5

Christine

After we gobble up a humungous bowl of spring salad followed by penne a la Carbonara, Hadley piles the plates, silverware, and the wine glasses, taking everything to the sink. I gather and throw away disposables, then proceed to wash the dishes, while he dries, just like we used to do when we were roommates during senior year college. We couldn’t fit a dishwasher in our tiny apartment back then. Nowadays, Grandma’s old one will burn the freaking wiring if I turn it on.

He elbows the right side of my waist. “How’s shooting coming along? Spill all the deets.”

I blow a raspberry. “Wish I had something to spill. Anything would be great at this point. I’ve spent too many weeks hanging with the cast waiting for my one scene, which keeps being postponed.”

He frowns. “Sounds boring, but I guess that’s par for the course in movie productions.”

I offer him a deep shrug, while holding a plate in the air for the excess water to drip. I hand it to him, which he dries, and settles on the kitchen island on top of a small pile.

When I don’t elaborate, he prompts me, “Aren’t delays usual?”

Guess we’ll be talking about this. I shut the faucet, lean my left hip against the edge of the sink, and steal the dishcloth from his hands to dry mine.

I hold Hadley’s gaze for a beat before murmuring, “Yes and no. Delays happen all the time in the industry.” I cross my arms on my chest. “Up until one week past Memorial Day, filming was two weeks behind schedule due to a series of technical issues, for the most part. Understandably, everyone got pretty antsy.”

While I talk, he opens the cupboards to put away the bowls and plates we’ve finished washing.

I pause.

He adds, “Well, if they’ve fallen behind schedule that explains why they haven’t shot your scene yet.”

With a deep inhale, I shake my head. “Here’s the weird part of this whole thing. Once they sorted out whatever was holding production back, the crew sped up shooting. They’ve made up for lost time, except for my damn scene.”

“Agree. That is odd.” He scratches his head. “Maybe they still have technical issues to solve before shooting that particular scene.”

“That makes total sense.” I poke his chest, smirking. “Except, it’s a very straightforward thing. It goes something like this: After stalking hot-as-fuck rockstar to his hotel room, groupie - aka me - gets a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity when said hottie serenades her before fucking her brains out. Sadly, the biopic is PG, so make-out session fades out before the grand finale.” I guffaw, “You see? There’s nothing inherently tricky with that. So, other than the absolute lack of singing talent on the leading actor’s part, I don’t see where the holdup is.”

“That bad, huh?”

I roll my eyes. “You wouldn’t believe the guy. I’d rather listen to an hour of nails scratching a blackboard than one minute of Pat Robertson singing.”

He shudders. “Ouch.”

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