Jealousy 7

I sit up and reach for the picture. My fingers glide lightly over his signature and the short message he included. I remember standing outside of the theater, waiting for it to let out. An actual red carpet had been rolled across the sidewalk. Maroon velvet ropes hung on shiny silver poles. Police patrolled the area on foot. Other security personnel stood by the doors of the theater and by the car doors as each pulled up. It was a warm summer night. Everyone was dressed up, hoping to catch someone’s attention.

Finally, the theater doors opened and the general public poured out. Once the walkway was cleared, celebrities began exiting. I held my ground firmly. No one would push me out of the way. John was one of the last people to leave. As expected, the crowd erupted. He already had a marker in hand, autographing pictures as he went. I handed him mine and he seemed surprised to see a picture from the movie. It was of him standing by the yellow plane when off screen. He was leaning against it, looking over his left shoulder as if someone had just called his name. His hair was tasseled, like it was in the movie. What stood out most were his incredible eyes. His chin was slightly down, accentuating their depths more than usual.

It took him longer to sign it than the others he signed. When he handed it back a fan finally managed to push through, sending me into the rope. I caught myself but dropped the picture. He must have been paying attention to me because he picked up the picture and handed it back to me. “Here you go beautiful.” His eyes directly on mine and a smile around his lips. I took it cautiously and thanked him. And then he was off, moving down the line. I watched him move slowly down the line. When he made it to his car, he turned and waved. I waved back and he smiled a much larger smile.

His car pulled out and I left my place at the premier and headed home. It wasn’t until I made it home that I remembered to read what he had written: A story of love and family. Just the memory made me glow. He called me beautiful. He smiled at me. He waved at me. How could he love me? I don’t know that he does yet. There is a possibility he could though.

Then I remember Wollensky’s and being sent home. I’m still in my work clothes and have yet to tend to my knee. I let the previews play and change into a light T-shirt and Capri pajama bottoms. I return to the bathroom for the washcloth, rolling the right leg of my pajamas up and rinse out the scrape. It stings and my eyes begin to water. If only that blonde bitch could have kept her mouth shut! I wouldn’t be sitting home watching movies. We would probably all be at the Green Mile, listening to some great jazz. Instead, he is alone with her. My head starts to pound and my stomach feels full again. I miss the warmth of my memories already.

I slide these thoughts aside, replace the picture on my stand, and open one of the drawers that are under my bed. I pull out my copy of This Is My Father and put it in the DVD player on the shelf under my nightstand. I orient myself so that I am facing the flat screen TV hanging on the wall to the left of my desk. I smile again. This time at my cleverness in ensuring I had a TV in my room. The TV sits inside a gold Hollywood Regency frame. I glance at the clock as I push play. It is only 8:30pm. I have time to watch two or three movies tonight.

Tomorrow, I will assess how bad things are. I’ve had enough grief for tonight.