“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “This is just a little weird for me.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You’re Damian Jones,” I tell him, “and you’re sitting on my coffee table.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, getting up. “You had to have known that we’d cross paths at one point or another, though, right?” he asks. “We are the main romance plot to the film, you know.”
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“No point. So,” he says with a flash of his dark green eyes, “are you into tall, handsome actors?”
“You know, for someone who’s always in the tabloids with a different woman on his arm, I would have thought you’d have a lot more game,” I tell him.
“Game?” he asks. “What do you mean?”
“You’re hitting on me,” I tell him, “and you’re not the slightest bit good at it. Maybe it’s just one of those sad things that tend to happen when fantasy meets reality.”
“Do you smoke?” he asks.
“Smoke what?” I return.
“Let’s start with tobacco and go from there,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t smoke anything. I hate the smell.”
“That’s good,” he says. “It’s terrible on the lungs and it makes you age like crazy.”
“Why do you ask, then?” I question.
“I was going to see if you’d be cool with me lighting up a cigarette in here,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I tell him without thinking. “Just open a window.”
“I think I’d better not,” he says. “You’re not a smoker, so you’re going to get sick of the smell really fast.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I heard you were nervous,” he says. “I also heard that you were trying to throw a party for teenagers involving cocaine and prostitutes and I wanted to see if you were actually that jaded—I was coming here to make sure I got an invite if it went that way—or if you’ve just got a sense of humor.”
“And?” I ask.
“And,” he says, “I have found that I’ve still only just met you and couldn’t possibly pass that kind of judgment so quickly.”
“I see,” I tell him. “Well, I’ve got another scene coming up in a little while, and I kind of like to—”
“Oh, you’ve got your own trailer ritual, huh?” he asks. “Carl Ivan had one of those that involved a rubber turkey leg, a pint of Southern Comfort, and a still of Stockard Channing from Grease. He never really said how it worked or even whether it worked or not. Come to think of it, I’m not sure exactly what he was hoping to accomplish, but—”
“Mr. Jones,” I interrupt.
“Damian,” he says. “You’re Emma and I’m Damian; pleased to meet you.”
“You’re a very strange man,” I tell him.
“Nah,” he scoffs, “strange is for the commoners. I’m rich, ergo, I’m not strange. I’m unconventional, dynamic.”
“The commoners?” I ask.
This is the most surreal moment of my life. I have no idea how to take him. He can’t really be this conceited, can he?