I didn't remember we were
just acting
it was some averagely budgeted
Hollywood "blockbuster" with all the
old clichés
I was a prisoner of war
turned prostitute
turned assassin getting a
hard-on for revenge.
He was a hunter with lusty lips and a
big old scar, bits of squished together plasticine, over his
left eye.
It made him look like such a badass, with those
Hells Angels biker boots too.
He was beautiful
an angel in dirty khaki shorts
I thought it was just acting
He'd just killed an invisible bear on a
green screen
broken through the sugar glass of
my bedroom window and
peeled off his sweaty shirt
and I could see his skin
marred by what looked like
burn scars
my character flinched
I didn't
he reddened, commendably,
embarrassed about them
the blush was fake
the scars weren't
a phone went off and the director
yelled something
I just stared as my hunter faded and
my colleague stomped around like a baby
demanding a beer, Stella Artois,
and a strip of gum and
oh
right
and a phone, to call his wife
to say he couldn't pick up Tyler from
school today
I sat on the mattress
latex knife strapped to my thigh by
some flimsy string
the cameras rolled and
my hunter was back, doing that thing
when his eyes creased at the edges
and only one side of his mouth
smiled
I reeled off my lines like a
fax machine
empty words tumbling out of my
painted mouth
was it just acting?
When he sniggered and lunged forwards
to steal a kiss
was it just acting?
When we rolled around on the cheap
