Sunday, August 19, 2012

Sock Girl

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Today for blogust, our task is to post stream-of-consciousness writing. Here is a little flash fiction I wrote, thanks to Write or Die:

He was handsome. Unlike many people she'd seen on TV, who looked good in only two dimensions, he looked good in all dimensions; better, even. On the screen he seemed too pretty; in person his flaws made him seem nearly approachable.

But not enough for her. Her heart fluttered as he approached, smirking, surrounded by people asking for his autograph. He mostly ignored them. She took a deep breath, dreading the moment when she had to make him notice her. If he did, would he see that she wanted a piece of him, just like everyone else? Or, even more humiliating, would he stare at her blankly like a non-entity, giving her the same consideration he'd give an ATM?

She stepped in front of him before his entourage could block her. "Hello, sir, I'm with the studio. If you could please come this way."

She turned as soon as she knew he'd heard her and led the way into the lot, her uncomfortable heels clicking against the stone pavement. Did she dream of moments like this when she came to LA, wondering if she'd meet her idols? Undoubtedly. But faced with the reality was much more intimidating than she'd expected--and she'd expected it to be intimidating.

She showed him around the lot, pointing out the catering table, his dressing room, and the green room. "Please let me know if you have any questions or need anything," she concluded, turning to look at him for the second and probably last time. He was less than six inches away, but she was careful not to invade his personal space.

"What did you say your name was again?" he asked. He was definitely LOOKING at her, and not in the way one looks at an ATM.

His voice threw her a bit. She knew his accent was different than on TV--he was British but played American roles--and was expecting it. But it was still weird to heard to hear a completely different voice from the one she was used to associating with him. She relaxed slightly.

"Evans. I'm the assistant director."

"It's nice to meet you." Smirk.

Aha, the smirk--he knew she was interested in him, then. She supposed she had been painfully obvious about it.

"Nice to meet you, as well." They shook hands. Evans couldn't stop herself from adding, "I'm such a fan of your work."

"That's always nice to hear."

A member of the entourage--blonde, probably ten years younger than Evans--trotted up and attached herself to the actor. Evans recalled herself and her place. She was the low woman on the totem pole, very low, and of no interest to someone like the actor in front of her.

"There's a cake in the green room, just like you asked," the blonde said breathlessly.

"Excuse me," Evans said, and scampered away as fast as she could, her heart pounding.

Later that night, Evans sat alone in her 200-square-foot studio apartment, eating ice cream. She wondered if she'd ever have the balls to reach for something she wanted. Meeting a man as handsome as the actor today and not making a move only confirmed to her that she would be alone forever. She'd just keep dating losers who didn't scare--or rock--her socks off for the rest of her life. Not that she dated that much anyway.

Just then, her cell phone rang. It wasn't a number she recognized, but she often got emergency calls for her job. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Evans?" a very British voice said on the other end. "This is ---. I need something."

She sat back. He was much easier to deal with when she didn't have to see him. "Sorry, my offer was limited to your appearance on our show. What was it you needed?"

"Well, I need fashion advice. Grey socks or blue?"

She was starting to feel like she was Claire Danes in Shop Girl. "Sorry, I'm not an expert on men's fashion. But I doubt anyone will be looking at your socks."

"Ah. Thank you for your advice. Cheers." He hung up.

How odd, Evans thought. Yes, it was very Shop Girl; but then Claire Danes only had Steve Martin and Jason Schwartzman to chose from. And she test drove both of them first. Evans stared at the phone for several long seconds, then called the last number. His voice answered, sounding confused.

"Where are you?" she asked. "I might have to see those socks for myself."

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