Page 19 of Her Sloth

PLAYLIST: LET ME DOWN SLOWLY – ALEC BENJAMIN

Isit on a red sofa with a fabric I dislike in the Four Seasons penthouse suite my manager rented for me and ignore him by staring at a glass table with questionable golden ram horns as legs.

My manager flew in from L.A. to bail me out and now paces up and down in front of me.

“The headlines!” he roars at me. “Look at your face! That won't heal properly for years! The producers will freak out!”

“I don’t fucking care,” I say, disengaged. It is now, back in my world, that I realize how much I hate it. How everything I am is a role. Not just the roles I play for money, but my entire life.

I performed what I had to perform to get into Hollywood.

I played the businesswoman for the suits in the company, and the untouchable bitch for the streets.

I don’t know who I am or where I belong.

Between all who I pretend to be, I have lost track of the person I am.

No, that’s not true.

I never knew who I am. The only thing I always knew was the love for cars.

My manager stops pacing and looks angrily at me.

“You will cost us millions,” he says. “That’s an entire existence. If you can’t keep your contracts, who’s gonna book you?”

“Shall they drop me, I don’t care,” I say, staring out of the window. My soul still lingers between those warehouses as I spun the car around. It was the thrill. The one moment where I have felt so alive. Everything was so real.

“BUT I CARE!!!” he roars. “I manage only you; have you forgotten?”

I close my eyes. I am so done with men shouting at me and telling me what my responsibilities are. First those lawyers asshole, now him.

I take a deep breath.

Open my eyes and look him directly in the eyes.

“You work for me,” I say silently. “If you mismanage your own business by only taking on one client, it’s a you problem, not a me one. If I were you, I’d be very careful now before you don’t have any clients at all.”

I get up and walk to the three elevators leading to the suite, and press the button, signaling him to leave. He is too flabbergasted to say a word. I know he will do whatever I say, because I am his only client. I also have nothing to lose.

I don’t care if I am dropped or shunned by the industry or anything else. I don’t need a penthouse suite in the Four Seasons. The only thing I need is a road, a car with more than 500 horsepower, and a bit of motor grease under my fingernails.

But now, people are relying on me. Thousands—no—millions of people.

So much about responsibilities.

My manager walks past me into the elevator opening, looking angry and whispering something that sounds like “We’re not done.”

I roll my eyes. What is it with men that they always need to have the last word?

I wait until the elevator doors have closed without another glance. It’s not the first dispute we have, and he’ll come around anyway.

I turn to the right and let myself fall onto the bed. It has a view overlooking Central Park; some people might sell their soul for this suite, while I’d sell mine to be anywhere else.

So instead of enjoying the view, I stare at the ceiling. The fan-folded beige fabric.

Like the curtains around me. Like the floor.

Beige and wood.