Page 6 of Love Scenes

I was network television’s leading blood spatter analyst, after all.

Four spraying droplets around a large undisturbed pool. Fatal gunshot wound. Entered from behind. Very close range.

It’s definitely not accurate, but it’s what they would have had me say on the show, each beat underscored by the swelling electronic symphony of my character’s theme music.

Only now it’s me who’s been bled dry, and there’s no one left to solve the case besides my mother.

“Please stop,” I say.

Mom gives me a cutting look. “Why aren’t you working?”

It’s a perfect, undefeatable response. Stunning in how preposterous it is. “Probably because I don’t actually have anything to do here,” I say. “We both know I shouldn’t have agreed—”

One of our production assistants appears, gently tapping on Mom’s shoulder, cutting off my impromptu resignation. “Ms. Porter. You’re being requested on set.”

“Please. Call me Kitty,” Mom tells the girl. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“Um.” The PA shifts from foot to foot. “Kind of? Joseph is having trouble with his dialogue.”

It takes every ounce of restraint possible not to give my mom a smug glare. I opt for a knowing look into the middle distance instead, like there’s an audience somewhere that’s seeing all of this unfold, knowing I was right all along.

“Do you know why they need me? There are two directors. Can neither direct him?” Mom asks.

The PA looks like she would walk straight into the ocean if given the choice between having this conversation and disappearing forever. “I’m not sure. Guy told me to find you.”

“Let’s go learn why my husband has requested me.”

We can’t enter until the red light in front of the soundstage turns off, so we stand in various states of distress. Mom sighs every few seconds like she doesn’t have the time for this inconvenience. The PA bites her lower lip while watching clouds pass overhead.

Once we have the clear to enter, Mom darts across the soundstage to the heart of the action. The script supervisor is feeding Joseph the correct lines, putting a strange affectation on her voice, quasi mimicking what must be Joseph’s generalized American accent. “Elise. Whatever it is that has you avoiding my eye, you can tell me. I can handle it.”

Joseph attempts to parrot the line back, somehow fumbling it. “I will handle it. No. Icanhandle it. I can handle it.I can handle it.”

“Take a breath, Joe.” Guy fails to follow his own advice. His face is ruddy from pent-up frustration. “All will be good, my friend.”

“Can I read it myself?”

“Of course,” Guy assures, handing Joseph a copy of the script.

As Joseph quietly scans the page, the whole crew collectively inhales, willing him to commit the dialogue to memory. After a solid minute, he looks around the soundstage, smiling at everyone, trying to make eye contact with each person along the way. He finds me and I look off, pretending not to have seen him at all.

“Got it,” he says to everyone. “Sorry for the trouble.”

The exhale is palpable.

They start the scene again. Joseph misses his mark when crossing the apartment. He almost knocks over a lamp.

“Christ,” he says, catching it. “I’m sorry. Keep rolling.” He takes a few steps back and starts from the top. “Elise, I know that when I left, I was... shit. What was I?”

“We’re farther down,” the script supervisor tells him.

“Right. Right.” He turns. “Elise, whatever it is that has you looking past my eye, you can’t tell me. I mean you can. You can tell me. I will handle it.”

The whole moment plays like something that would make it onto a blooper reel if the tone were different.

This?

This looks like a meltdown.