So it seems.

It is strange when writing two paragraphs is an accomplishment. That I could set aside my pain for a little while and focus on a trifle of a story. I miss my dad. I worry about my mom and brother and sister. I’ve developed an intimate relationship with money that I never thought I’d have. I learn about “monthly annuities,” and “probate,” and “survivor benefits.” And, for a little while, I write.

The Voice

Rachel raised the champagne flute to her eyes, observing the crowd through a hay-colored lens. She wasn’t feeling bubbly. Her girdle, which now went by a sassier brand name, had ridden up and devoured her underwear, making it impossible to sit without being violated by Spandex. She was wearing “the dress,” a skin-tight piece she had purchased for her first big premiere and hadn’t bothered to replace with anything else. That day she had puzzled over ways to make it fresh, and had settled on an enamel pin in the shape of a stargazer lily that was heavy and limp on her left shoulder. It wouldn’t matter anyway –  publicists barely looked up from their checklists when she walked the step-and-repeat.

There had been other premieres where the events of the evening had been eclipsed by her fantasies of reward. That after the endless smiles and hugs and introductions there was powdered sugar sand, big sunglasses, floppy hat, cold drink. An impromptu interview on the beach – “Oh, I absolutely have the time. What would you like to ask?” It was all one audition away, one big gig in the wings.

Tonight, she was a tree sloth named Edie.


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