Who: Valerie King and Saint Reilly What: 'So you're pretty. Really pretty. And this might sound creepy. But it isn't. But can I ...photograph you?' When: Recently Where: Ocean's Eleven door. Status: Unfinished.
[He's been there a handful of times before. It's the same. Similar. Names are different on a couple of buildings (he notices. Maybe he wouldn't if he wasn't looking for differences. But he is) but mostly it's the same. He spent half a day watching the Bellagio fountains rise and fall in graceful arcs with his hands dug deep into his pockets, squinting against the sun. Just to see it again stands the hair on the back of his neck up, uncomfortably aware this isn't normal. This isn't the same but it is.
He found a bar the first time. He didn't look at the name; he felt too strange, like swimming around beneath the surface and coming up for air somewhere utterly different. Disoriented. He just aimed toward a place where the name was written in neon and the windows were dark, and the people in it looked like they were too busy having a good time to notice him sitting there, trying to balance how good it felt knowing the place with how odd it felt knowing it wasn't the same place at all. And there was music. He's not really into music. Not in a collect CDs, know the names kind of way. He knows what he likes. It was kind of like that. Smoky. Mellow. Kind of sweet, too; a blond in a dress that sparkled too much for it to be meant for anything but a stage. The next time he came through, he aimed for the bar and the blond because if you're going to sit drinking one beer over three hours, contemplating whether you try to fool yourself long term or you keep chasing superheroes around to get a good picture, you might as well do it with ambiance.
Maybe she's ambiance. She's also really pretty. He finds himself sketching on the back of a napkin, a little damp from somebody's glass and the pen jolts over the damp spots and bleeds out, which sort of ruins the effect but he's contemplating what she'd look like, lit right. (The bar doesn't light her right at all. There's a spot - but - as she comes down off the stage, set finished and she's close to, he decides they've got the gels wrong. She's warm tones, instead of blue and maybe blue works for the gown but it doesn't for the rest of her.)
And she's elbow's length away and he says it because he doesn't think not to. Awkward, because it always is coming out of nowhere.]
So you're pretty. Really pretty. And this might sound creepy. But it isn't. But can I ...photograph you? [Earnest. A lot of dark hair, in need of a haircut. A wrinkled shirt. And a smile. That's earnest too.]