You are lovely.

I wake up to the text. It makes me want to press my phone to my chest, but I don't. I pull on my socks instead.

~

"Props?"

He stands at the door to his semi trailer like a king, cigarette hanging from his mouth, arms folded across his chest. Behind him, one of his crew, a woman in black cargo pants and a black baseball cap, rummages around, tossing old calendar pages in the plastic garbage can beside the stairs.

"Lights?" I ask, smiling. I have a large pair of binoculars under my arm, and my hands are full of plexiglass lenses, and a gel swatchbook.

I show him the samples I've fanned out from the swatch book. Amber, Dark Amber, Fire. I recite the numbers of the samples in my head. It's been so long since I've hung a light, cut a gel, it almost feels foreign to me now.

He pulls his radio to his mouth, calls some of his crew. I don't hear their response because of the earpiece in his ear, but he stubs out his cigarette on the concrete, and beckons me to follow.

~

"These need a camo paint job," my boss says, waving a hand in the direction of the table full of sniper rifles, "then age them. They need to ship out first thing monday morning."

He leaves. I clean off my bench, and transport the rifles, one by one, to it.

I pop out the clips. These guns look real.

I check the engravings on the side.

They are definitely real. I make sure the barrels face the wall, even if the clips are out and the chamber is empty.

I google the make.

$7000 a piece. I have a table of almost $30,000.

Before I start, I snap a picture and send it to my gun nerd friend. The text I get back is breathless.

Those are specialty police rifles. Each round is $12.

I squirt paint onto an old bucket lid and stir it up with some fluid matte medium. I cut some sponges out of upholstery foam.

It takes about half an hour to fully clog each $7000 gun with paint.

~

The lighting king takes me into his secondary truck. It's almost empty, except for a step ladder, and rolls of gel stacked up near the ceiling.

Guys drift in, radios strapped to their belts. Plaid shirts, cargo pants, and Blundstones are an unofficial uniform.

One of the guys comes almost to my shoulder.

"Where do you need this, boss?" he asks.

"It's for me," I say, turning with my arm load of things.

I don't recognize him. I thought I knew everyone in the studio now. He's black, with a square body, a generous mouth, and alert eyes. Exactly my type.

His eyes flick around my face, and I know he's doing exactly the same assessment of me.

I forget to ask for his name.

~

"I don't know if this was communicated to you," my boss says, standing at the top of the stairs to the shop, "but we need that shotgun cleaned, and the rubber painted and ready for 3pm."

My eyes slide to the clock. A little after 1pm.

I won't make it.

I don't make it.

It would have been handy to know six hours ago.

~

I resist texting him all day.

I rehearse my break-up speech, but I don't want to use it.

He texts me a video he's been working on, a proposal for a short film.

They both speak in it. She needs to wear more cover-up on her eyes, and rehearse her words more so they flow better.

Lookin' good, I text back.

I go to bed, and drag my covers up around my neck.

The other half of my bed is empty.

.

Rosie

Before&After