“Seriously,” he says. “You could be a movie star or something.”
“You haven’t seen Battle for the Nexus, have you?” I ask.
He laughs. “I can’t say that I have,” he answers.
“I played Morgan Salazar, the sexy former Marine commander who succumbs to greed, lust for power, and the sheer temptations that come with wearing silk overcoats with nothing recognizable as a top underneath,” I tell him. “If that didn’t make me a movie star, I don’t know what possibly could.”
“It actually wasn’t that bad,” he says.
I turn my head to look at him.
“You actually saw that?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I’ve seen all your movies.”
“I’m sorry,” I answer. “I don’t know why that’s my go-to response when someone tells me they’ve seen all my movies.”
“Yeah, that’s a bit of a strange one,” he says. “Anyway, I really liked that speech you gave when you went from being Morgan Salazar to the Mistress of Temptation. It was very moving.”
“Yeah, I remember that scene. I believe I was talking to a group of half-man, half-assorted-sea-creatures at the time,” I tell him. “How inspiring could that possibly have been for you?”
“It was pretty good,” he says. “Solid inflection, didn’t overact on the more dramatic lines. I was really impressed.”
“Why would you even watch a movie like that?” I ask. “I haven’t even seen the completed version, and I was at the premiere. Of course, the premiere was held at a Bennigan’s off of I-5, and I spent most of my time hiding out in the bathroom.”
“You’re really that ashamed of your films?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think I was at the time, but now that I’m starting to claw my way out of the absurdity of the low-budget scene, it doesn’t really seem that bad. They were terrible movies, but they got me here.”
“That’s what led you to my bed, huh?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, and give him a playful punch in the chest. “That’s what led me to the world of legitimate film.”
“Where’s that?” Damian asks. “From what I’ve seen, legitimate films are like static on a radio: they’re always there, but nobody’s quite sure where they come from.”
“You tried really hard there, didn’t you?” I ask, and in a mocking voice, I add, “‘Legitimate films are like static, myeh.”
He opens his palms and looks up to the ceiling, saying, “She wonders why I broke up with her. Can you believe it?”
“Oh, fuck off and make me some coffee, will you?” I ask.
“Actually,” he says, “I’ve got a better idea.”
He smiles at me and turns his body toward me. I look into his eyes and say, “That’s your hand on my tit.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It seems like a better idea than coffee to me.”
“Your hand on my tit?” I ask.
“Why do you call them that?” he asks. “I thought most women hated that term?”
“What’s the difference?” I ask. “Am I talking about different things when I call it a boob instead of a breast or a tit instead of a mammary or a love pillow instead of a quivering alabaster orb?”
“Dude,” he says, “you just blew my mind.”
“Dude?” I ask. “So, are you going to just keep your hand there awhile or—”
“Yeah,” he says.