Roots
A/N: Original piece, short and sweet. A glance into two lives. PG-13 for language and sexualit-eh.
He comes to see her in her dressing room, the cluttered yet enormous hideaway she has spent the last two years filling with admirers’ tokens and lipstick.
She is just applying shades of red to her little pink mouth when she spots him in the glass. He enters and leans on the doorframe.
“Yeth?” she says delicately, stick poised in one hand and lip curled over her bottom teeth.
“Good luck tonight,” he says. His voice is low and a little crumbly.
Kissing face with her mouth (not affectionate, just to cement the look). “S’at all?”
“Such a bigshot now you don’t need anyone to tell you good luck?”
“It’s break-a-leg, my dear genius.” She tosses her hair back - the hairspray makes the curls bounce but not fall.
“Right, right…” He sidles over to the green chair, sits, sinks. “Where you goin after the show.”
“Prolly go home and sleep.” She slouches. “I should be getting pumped up about now. I thought you had a show tonight, too?”
Big exhale from his compact chest. “Actually, uh… Eric checked into rehab this afternoon. Had to cancel.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. I mean… Jesus. He had it coming.”
“Well, shit, I know. Couldn’t talk to the bastard after Jenny left.”
“Well, what are you gonna do.” Silence as he glances in the mirror and catches a glimpse of her nose. “You about ready?”
“For the moment.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Want me to wake you up?”
She throws her head back over the chair to see him. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer her; he just comes over, bends his head down over the tip of the chair and nuzzles her neck with his mouth.
“Mmm,” she says. He continues. “But you’re going to have to do better than that.”
He starts to slip one hand down her shirt - her costume - and they just gaze at themselves lovingly in the mirror. There are mirrors everywhere.
“Come here,” he whispers in her ear and she swings around, rises, meets him, her fresh lipstick leaving faint traces on his lips. They feel for each other and her hand snakes into his jean pocket, feeling the cold lump of a cell phone - which, unexpectedly, rings in her hand.
She breaks away from him, holds the phone to her ear and says, “Hello?”
The next few moments are silence, as he stands frozen, and she stands like a calm beacon of iron.
“No, who is - ah, I see. I see. Uh huh. Yeah.”
She beeps off.
They just look at one another.
It is a long time.
He finally tries to start with - “So you gonna uh” -
“Who the fuck is Erika?”
“What?”
“Who the fuck is Erika.”
There is no point. He stutters.
“Just tell me who the fuck Erika is.”
He gives up, “I can’t” -
“GODDAMMIT, I ASKED YOU A SIMPLE FUCKING QUESTION! WHO THE FUCK IS ERIKA?”
Her words are knocking him backwards. He shrinks into himself a little further. “Stoppit, I can explain, alright?”
“GODDAMMIT, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT!”
He protests and she shrieks, grabs a plant from a nearby table and throws it. Dirt flies.
He retreats. “Goddammit, girl!”
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Tears fly out of her eyes like bullets. “GODDAMMIT, YOU CREEPY FUCK! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS THEATER!”
He is gone, his feet pounding the linoleum and she bangs down onto the floor, crying and swearing and ripping the roots of the plant to shreds.
end.
He comes to see her in her dressing room, the cluttered yet enormous hideaway she has spent the last two years filling with admirers’ tokens and lipstick.
She is just applying shades of red to her little pink mouth when she spots him in the glass. He enters and leans on the doorframe.
“Yeth?” she says delicately, stick poised in one hand and lip curled over her bottom teeth.
“Good luck tonight,” he says. His voice is low and a little crumbly.
Kissing face with her mouth (not affectionate, just to cement the look). “S’at all?”
“Such a bigshot now you don’t need anyone to tell you good luck?”
“It’s break-a-leg, my dear genius.” She tosses her hair back - the hairspray makes the curls bounce but not fall.
“Right, right…” He sidles over to the green chair, sits, sinks. “Where you goin after the show.”
“Prolly go home and sleep.” She slouches. “I should be getting pumped up about now. I thought you had a show tonight, too?”
Big exhale from his compact chest. “Actually, uh… Eric checked into rehab this afternoon. Had to cancel.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. I mean… Jesus. He had it coming.”
“Well, shit, I know. Couldn’t talk to the bastard after Jenny left.”
“Well, what are you gonna do.” Silence as he glances in the mirror and catches a glimpse of her nose. “You about ready?”
“For the moment.”
“You sound tired.”
“I am.”
“Want me to wake you up?”
She throws her head back over the chair to see him. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer her; he just comes over, bends his head down over the tip of the chair and nuzzles her neck with his mouth.
“Mmm,” she says. He continues. “But you’re going to have to do better than that.”
He starts to slip one hand down her shirt - her costume - and they just gaze at themselves lovingly in the mirror. There are mirrors everywhere.
“Come here,” he whispers in her ear and she swings around, rises, meets him, her fresh lipstick leaving faint traces on his lips. They feel for each other and her hand snakes into his jean pocket, feeling the cold lump of a cell phone - which, unexpectedly, rings in her hand.
She breaks away from him, holds the phone to her ear and says, “Hello?”
The next few moments are silence, as he stands frozen, and she stands like a calm beacon of iron.
“No, who is - ah, I see. I see. Uh huh. Yeah.”
She beeps off.
They just look at one another.
It is a long time.
He finally tries to start with - “So you gonna uh” -
“Who the fuck is Erika?”
“What?”
“Who the fuck is Erika.”
There is no point. He stutters.
“Just tell me who the fuck Erika is.”
He gives up, “I can’t” -
“GODDAMMIT, I ASKED YOU A SIMPLE FUCKING QUESTION! WHO THE FUCK IS ERIKA?”
Her words are knocking him backwards. He shrinks into himself a little further. “Stoppit, I can explain, alright?”
“GODDAMMIT, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! GET THE FUCK OUT!”
He protests and she shrieks, grabs a plant from a nearby table and throws it. Dirt flies.
He retreats. “Goddammit, girl!”
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!” Tears fly out of her eyes like bullets. “GODDAMMIT, YOU CREEPY FUCK! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS THEATER!”
He is gone, his feet pounding the linoleum and she bangs down onto the floor, crying and swearing and ripping the roots of the plant to shreds.
end.