daisy chains

flash, flash, flash us for cash(8)

Back at the diner feels like I haven't progressed. Mr. Johnson's apartment's like a fairytale, and every time I step out feels like the last time, like I'm stepping out of something unreal into something ugly. Real.

The overhead lights flicker as I flip through the pages of a script. There aren't any characters that fit my description, and I'm already sensing another rejection. It's been a month since I got any callback, any good news. I feel like I might melt, turn into slime and slide down the counter into a puddle of self pity and a dying dream.

Shit's been really shit. No one's been comin' round the diner as they used to. None of the regulars at least. I miss seeing the kids from high school drop in with their overloaded backpacks, or the men in cheap suits order multiple mugs of coffee and stare blankly out the  window. I guess everyone's on holiday or something other I can't afford.

I've been looking through magazines and newspapers for any role. Tomorrow, I've a photoshoot at 7 in the morning for a webzine and I have to miss a few hours of my shift. But Saturdays are especially quiet, at least before noon.

In the morning, the sunlight drifts into my one bedroom apartment window like a veil that reveals how ugly it really looks. When I'm back from my late shifts I usually can't see the cracks on the walls very well, or the stains on the ceiling that threaten to come alive and consume me. Sometimes I close my eyes after I curl into a ball under the covers, and pretend that I'm staying at the Ritz. I'm really just some actress waiting to order room service for breakfast and catching the early glow that only reflects on buildings the way it does in a big city.

But now it's 6 and my bananas are half mush. Still, it's edible. And coffee's a blessing straight from a god or whatever's up there.

The shoot starts a bit late and it's obvious right off the bat that I'm only there so they can use me. Splash the little bit of color I have onto their pictures and make it seem as if they care. But they dress me up in skinny jeans that hug my ass too tight, and I think I almost scream when someone pulls out a hair straightener and I have to pull out one of mama's "think this through one more time" looks before they back away.

But it's okay, and it pays the bills and some more. So I leave with a smile and even though the hairs on my head weep with fear I still cross my fingers this will be a regular gig.

The city reflects hell fire on me as I walk home, and the skin on my face is melting until I can taste the powder on my lips. 

I unlock my apartment door and think of the man who stared at me as I undressed. Like taking my shirt off would reveal I'm actually white, that I'm only pealing another layer of skin. Like my ass is a cushion I can remove away from my thighs, or that my chest can't possibly look this flat if my ass looks like that but it does because it is. He looks away when he catches me catching him staring.

I lock the door behind me, and the keys clatter on the kitchen counter before I wash myself raw in the shower.