Page 1 of Ruby
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Ani
The moan starts low, deep in my stomach, the resonance building just like the many crescendos I’ve sung. It’s the perfect counterpoint to the slap of flesh against flesh.
The feel of his hip bones against me is an anchor to the moment.
A long breath puffs against my neck, a shiver rising as it stirs the small hairs. It distracts me from the muted feel of his hands on my breasts and I almost miss my cue, arching my back and bringing my moan higher just that small beat too late.
And suddenly it’s all out of balance. I’m no longerher, instead lost in that liminal space between versions of myself. Lost because there is no foundation.
Luckily, there’s a hum in the room that never stops to call me back. The quiet roar of lights, the shuffle of shoes, the faint whine of a lens refocusing. It’s supposed to disappear when the cameras roll, but I hear everything.
I always do.
The moment before my fatal error I try to catch myself, but I’m still partly in the space between. I stiffen when I see where my gaze has fallen. Right into the lens.
“Fuck, Ani. This isn’t fucking porn,” the director sneers.
Someone in the back of the room snickers, bright lights making them anonymous. Not that they wouldn’t do the same right to my face.
For a moment I don’t know what expression is on my face, then I shake myself, pulling up my most common mask.
The Bitch.
“Maybe if you didn’t cast a limp dick mouth breather I’d have more to work with,” I shoot back.
Mouth Breather stiffens, but in all the wrong places, then pulls away. I wince as the movement shifts the adhesive of my thong, tugging against my sensitive skin.
“I’m not into grannies,” he replies, pulling a snort from me. He might be a better actor than I’ll ever admit, but clearly he’s not great at insults.
“Shut the fuck up and get it right,” the director growls out in his best barking voice.
Mouth Breather and I take a deep breath and reset. My moves are mechanical as I dress, ignoring the hovering people workingon my hair and makeup. I roll my eyes when I see him put on his platform shoes, annoyed at the vanity of yet another man trying to match my height, then make myself ignore anything but who I amsupposedto be at this moment.Her, not me.
The script calls for a “moment of electric chemistry.” Choreography and art. A tilt of the chin, a pause on the breath, the illusion that what I’m about to do isn’t separated from my soul by a thin layer of professionalism and peppermint.
Across from me, he’s doing the same thing. Pretending not to hear the crew whispering. Someone snorts. Someone makes a low whoop, trying to stifle it like we’re a joke, not two people trying to make something believable.
We both ignore it. That’s the skill no one teaches. How to stay open while the world intrudes.
“Action.”
The word slices through the set, and I turn toward him. The lights wash the edges off everything, even my nerves. In that heartbeat, I’m not me. I’mher. Someone brave enough to mean every touch. I press forward.
His hand finds the small of my back, steady, practiced. My mouth meets his, soft and certain, as if we aren’t surrounded by lights and lenses and laughter waiting to happen. There’s a kind of quiet there, a stillness that belongs only to us.
Then he undresses me hungerly, and this time I maintain my hold onher, lust racing along my nerves in response as my moans rise again.
The scene ends. The rhythmic sound of skin against skin dies. Someone claps, mockingly. Someone mutters about food.
I shift out from underneath him and nod like it’s nothing, no different from reading a line or hitting a mark. But I can still feel the breath caught between us, that flicker of something human. That fragile, unfilmed, and realsomethingthat existed for the smallest moment before everyone remembered we were acting.
I retreat to my chair in the corner, the one with my name stenciled on tape that’s started to peel. I notice the new name printed a few seats down. A younger woman, same hair color as mine, though hers comes from liberal application of bleach, same polite laugh I used to have, same way of thanking every assistant who doesn’t look her in the eye.
I used to wear that mask, but it was poor protection and it took me far too long to realize it had nothing to do with success. That came down to the fickle nature of fame, and of course opening my legs.
Should I tell her?
