If asked, I would've said:
"Like being in an old film, black and white images flickering on the wall and the voices ever so slightly out of sync. Everyone smoking. Glamorous women and gangsters. Shadows behind shadows between shadows."
(Being shot, somewhat, accidentally. Watching Marianne not die, telling her not to-
A crap screenplay, and I'm on the other side of the world when-
Marianne is warm skin and sour breath; she snores, a soft of whispered whistling, and shifts against me. I tell her I want to marry her. I tell her I love her. She exhales against my chest, and I run my fingers through her hair. Light creeps in from beneath the door, and I can't sleep. Jet lag. I miss Nicholas, the dog, my bed. I want to go-)
I wasn't asked (not really, not that precise question, or perhaps I just didn't answer): a small mercy, that.
*
Another day of shooting done, and I never want to see another horse outside a polo match again. I am: wet, muddy, filthy, sore. Marianne is lying in bed, laughing. At me. Full-out, hysterical, laughter. I glare at her; at least, I think I do. Even my face hurts.
"I'm sorry, darling," she says, "but you look a fright."
-and-
"Poor dear, what has that horrible director done to you now?"
-and-
"Let's get you undressed and into a hot shower."
My trousers stick, toffee-like, to my legs. My pants chafe. Marianne pulls my shirt away from my skin and over my head, tosses it to the floor. She ruffles my hair. Runs her fingernails against the grain of my beard and wrinkles her nose.
"Come on," she says, "We'll be completely decadent and use up all the hot water in Australia."
I smile. Let her lead me toward the bath, watch as she fiddles with the taps.
She really is quite beautiful. Her eyes close, and she's smiling. I lean forward, and her mouth opens beneath mine. She tastes of toothpaste, of whiskey, of herself; when I start to unbutton her shirt, she laughs.
"Wash first, fuck later," she says. I kiss her again; she sighs and kisses me back.
*
If asked, I'd have lied. Or told the truth. I wasn't asked (I was): I lied (I told the truth). I'm never doing another film again (I want to, I am, I will). I'm hungry (I'm thirsty), and I light a fag (I smoke two, light a third).
*
I wake around three. My hand hurts and my pulse speeds -- momentarily, just for a second. I climb out of bed and stumble out to the sitting room. Switch on the lamp and blink against the sudden light. When I ring him, it is only to inquire after his, after their, after our-
"I've written a song," I say.
He laughs, rusty and nicotine-stained. "Well, hello Michael, so lovely to hear from you. How are you, I'm well, Anita's still mad, Charlie says you're a wanker and we're all better off without you, and Bill-"
"Sod off." I don't laugh. I don't.
"You first."
I inhale, exhale. "Hello, Keith. How are you doing?"
I wait-- counting one, two, three, four-- and he finally breaks. "Just play the fucking song already, you prat."
We're on the phone for over an hour. I sit on the floor, and I write down whatever comes into my mind.
*
The sun comes up, and my knees crack as I stand. I remember sleep as if a dream, and I look up to see Marianne, a halo of light around her hair. I kiss her good morning, and she hands me a coffee.
She yawns. Asks, "How's Keith?"
"Fine," I tell her. "Dandy, even."
She doesn't ask after Charlie, or Bill. I light a fag, and she takes it from between my lips.
I don't bother to light another. The coffee's cold.
*
The question not asked, nor answered:
A photograph, hidden in Marianne's toiletry bag (I'm looking for soap):
Keith, walking away from the camera, looking back. His jeans are old and faded, and there's a small tear in the back pocket. He's laughing. Hair tucked behind his ears-- he never did grow into them-- and smoking a fag.
I put it back exactly where I found it. We're out of the olive oil soap I like.
I have to be on set in an hour.
*fin.
---
the prompt:
Watching the backing band
Dance like shamans on a stage
Conjures the spirit of a love long emptied,
Tickets decomposing in
A pocket, rum and coke to hand.
[once more into the fray]