The Curse of The Ex-Girlfriend Motif:
The Cure For Sinning In Threes (a.k.a. He Smiles and Breaks Hearts)
It's strange the way you've shaped your hair into a semblance of a mohawk. I might call it a faux hawk, but really it's just a copy cat version of that singer from The Bravery. You look like him. You look like a young Elvis as you strut your stuff around the room as if you own the place. I think you think you do. Which is simply typical of you: with your far-too-young girlfriend and your just-beyond-ridiculously expensive cars. You paid $500 for that haircut, and I know the suit jacket was easily twice that. Probably five times that.
I can watch you from dissociated eyes now: I'm not yours and you're not mine. I'm not the pawn in your game of seductive Chess, and I have the clarity of mind to know that you are simply a player. A beautiful, rich, young Don Juan. You have all of Hollywood in the palm of your hand these days. Except me. I see through the Armani exterior to your black heart. Black as the darkest of days, because she left you. She isn't me. She isn't her. She will never be me. She will never be-
"I think it's time for us to take to our seats, Blue," her voice fills the small lobby of the nuvo riche theatre. "They're about to begin."
The smallest portion of my petite presence had expected for you to approach us. For you to say hello. To at least make that minimalist effort to bid me well in my future alone. But you remain cold and stolid, at her side; protecting her from no harm with your long, tattooed, sculpted arms. There were times when those arms protected me, but those times appear to be just history at this moment. So I let you walk from my sight as I am guided toward my waiting seat. Center orchestra, fourth row. If you care.
In fact, I take in every second of the film premiere with rapt disinterest. I am here because I was forced to be here, in this chair. You're seated three rows ahead, in the front row center. But of course. This is her film. Her big night. And you are her everything.
"What did you think of the film, Blue?" Sonia's voice is fluidly soft, curious. We are back in the lobby, covered in gold ornamentation that screams gaudy. Rich. Seductive. Young Hollywood's newest discovery.
Not certain what words will formulate on my dry tongue, I pause and partake of my surrounding. Just to our right, the latest "It Girl" is lighting a cigarette, while her latest "It Boy" is eyeing up her ass. Oh the field day "Enquirer" would have with this scene. I can see the headlines now. This film? It's headline? Something to the tune of, "This is not a film."
"How so?" Sonia questions with a slight laugh.
"It was a movie," I state unwavering. Bitter. "It was a movie just as many others. The acting was on par with the quality of the script, and that was mediocre at best."
The shadow over my shoulder introduces his presence before my visual perceptive centers can acknowledge his location. He smirks with amusement. "Is that what you really think?"
I nod. "This was mediocre, at best."
He nods. He looks even more beautiful at this close proximity. His skin is prickled with five o'clock's shadow, while his eyes glow a distinct honey brown. I had almost forgotten the diminutive dimples that appear when he curves his lips this way. Just as I have forgotten how his touch is electric in the romance-novel sort of way. I lose myself in him as he grins. "I'm sorry, Blue, but I spy jealousy and bitterness. It's unbecoming of you, and it's petty."
"Perhaps it is," are the only words I can speak.
"Perhaps," he nods in agreement. His lips purse in concentration and I know, instinctually, that he is searching for the words to address what he cares to state. He watches himself around me, eyes darting to and fro. Perhaps it is he who is jealous. Curious. Perhaps even slightly melancholic.
"Well," Sonia smiles politely and intervenes on my behalf. "I don't think we've ever met before."
He smiles in that manner that says, no we have not; and I hope we never will again. It's covert. No one knows his lips' translation like I do. I know them well. "It's very nice to meet you...?"
"Sonia," she bows gracefully. The neckline of her cliché little black dress is nonexistent: the cocktail length garment dips so low her belly-button ring is visible. When she bows, her cleavage is exposed. This reminds me why I am here.
He bows slightly as he kisses the top of her hand. He may not be a gentleman, but he plays it well on TV. He smiles and his eyes light. "Sonia, it is so very nice to meet you. I am Joel."
Sonia blushes. "Nice to meet you, Joel." And then the cliché, "I've heard so much about you."
Joel blushes in that matter that lights his ears. He looks a little startled as he jams his hands into his pockets. Suddenly, the Rico Suave act disappears. "Good, I hope?"
I feel forced to interrupt this ridiculous scene with a snort. A loud, annoyed, callous snort that tells him the truth he already knows to be present amongst us. No, what Sonia has heard has not been good; and no, we don't care to discuss that here. Or now.
"So I guess I should introduce you to the misses?" he tries to change the subject. I feel the train derailing as he forms the word "misses". I think he's aware that the axels have overturned and the locomotive is crashing down to earth; he looks like a train wreck already. This should make for the most interesting introduction ever to occur in front of the paparazzi. In fact, I am vaguely aware that we have already provided the material for a week's salary for several photographers.
And so it begins. She moves like a petite, teenage angel through the throng of Hollywood's elite. How elite they truly are should make for an interesting debate, but we'll save that mental juggernaut for another night. Tonight, he's going to introduce me to her. Tonight, I'm going to "meet the misses" who is ten years younger with perkier breasts. Her teeth are better bleached, her purse is more expensive. Her outfit alone tabulates to the equivalent of my monthly rent. Let's forget her car, which is likely still sitting in her overpriced cobblestone driveway somewhere in Beverly Hills. The limo drove tonight. Yes, Jeeves is waiting somewhere underfoot to whisk Cinderella and Prince Not So Charming back to the Ball anytime now.
"Oh my gosh!" she squeals, tossing her bosom onto mine and wrapping her miniscule arms around my frame. "I've heard so much about you, Blue! Oh my gosh!" She sounds like a bad Sweet Valley High rerun. I feel the urge to wretch as she steps back and devours me with her glowing, honey brown eyes. They remind me of someone I used to love. "You're just as beautiful as Joel said. Oh my gosh."
"Thank you," I feel obligated to attempt a smile. But I realize my Vampire teeth are showing.
She sighs and turns to Sonia, as if realizing for the first time that the other woman exists. My woman. Sonia is mine. I suddenly feel protective of my girlfriend. She is as blonde as the teenager in question, as lean and as tanned. Upon further analysis, I realize the two could be sisters. This thought makes me shudder, just as her touch made me shudder inwardly.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm being so rude," she smiles. It's a genuine smile. She's a genuine girl. A Tommy Girl, a CK girl, a Prada girl, an Armani girl, a buy-it-if-it's-the-trend girl. "I'm Hilary, by the way." She extends a tiny, perfectly sun-kissed hand bejeweled with diamonds, emeralds and rubies, OH MY!
My hand is porcelain in comparison, just as small but not bedecked with the latest bling. I have no seven-figure income to speak of, no six-figure homestead. No film contract. No modeling contract. No Mickey Mouse Club membership, and certainly no teenage followers. I am just a simple woman, with simple possessions. I no longer possess that which she can easily demand. I no longer possess him.
"Blue," I nod courteously.
