… Then there was Rachel. We’ve been having sex for a couple months now. She’s an actress. I’ve photographed her a few times for different magazines. She said I made her feel comfortable and sexy, which of course led to our current sexual affair. She’ll never be an A-lister, but she doesn’t exactly struggle, either. Over the next few years she’ll do a couple TV shows, maybe a horror film sequel and eventually fade off into oblivion. These type of celebrities are like girl scout cookies. During the season, everyone’s desperate for a thin mint. After a couple months of being gone, though, we will forget about them. However, right now we are in peak season and I am very much enjoying my thin mint.
Rachel doesn’t want a relationship with me because she’s emotionally unavailable. When you’re in love with yourself the way she is, there’s not much love left to go around. I couldn’t have asked for a better deal. So, here I am laying in her bed, smoking my cigarette and using her People’s Choice Award as a bedside ashtray. She doesn’t notice because she’s too deep into her usual morning speech. She tosses her hair and pulls on her jeans as she spews out aimless chatter.
“So, I went on a date with some asshole the other night…”
I nod, uninterested. Occasionally, I’ll blow a smoke ring.
“We went to Gjelina’s. You’ve been there, right?”
I don’t respond because I didn’t hear the question. I’m too consumed with a photo I’ve spotted hanging on her wall. It’s a picture of her in Tibet, arm in arm with a Monk. I try to make sense of it, but it hurts my brain and I quickly give up.
“God, I’d fucking kill to spend all my time in Venice. Anyway, halfway through dinner, he tells me he doesn’t know who I am. I’m sitting there like ‘come on, dude.’ I mean, you’re either lying, which is just lame, or you’ve been living under a fucking rock. Equally, unimpressive.”
My focus goes back to her. I get the sudden urge to spout off truths to her… “It’s so unattractive when you talk about yourself.” Or… “I hope one day you’ll find some real purpose in your life.” Or… “I fucked your publicist last week.”
Instead, I resist and only stare at her as she dresses. Somehow, amidst her speech, she notices said stare.
“What?” she asks–managing to sound human, if only for a moment.
“Oh, nothing. You just look really lovely…” I reply.