you're too young & eager to love

This is so random. It stems from a conversation with my dearest in which we realized that some of our characters occupy a rather small universe. It's like seven degrees of Kevin Bacon up in here.

I didn't much care about my writing style, because I was going for amusing. We have: Emere, Maine, Olivia, and implications of Mia.






“You have breasts this time.”

Between the shuttering of the camera, Olivia laughs. She crosses her legs primly, smoothing the Versace animal print skirt over her thighs. It’s real fur, and she rubs it a little closer to her knees. Paired with a black studded belt and an emerald high-collared blouse, the look is fierce. Or it’s supposed to be – she just wears the clothes, puts on an endless smile or a glimmering smirk. Sloe-eyed perfection with such sharp cheekbones. “I added another egg to my breakfast.”

“You rebel.” The photographer is smiling, wiggling an eyebrow until Olivia laughs again, and then she’s asked to turn a little more to the left. “You were on the Dior campaign last fall, right? Great editorial in Vogue. Steven Klein can be a genius when he’s not a shithead.”

“He doesn’t like to use me too much. Says I’m too narrow.”

Maine shrugs her shoulder, a wolf prowling the perimeter of the set. “I’m used to models who eat erasers.”

“Don’t eat those either.” She flashes a long-nailed finger at the other in a point, neither offended nor hurt, and Maine likes that. She likes the model’s voice too – her habit of talking from the front of her mouth, elongating certain vowels, and she wonders briefly how much a tongue can twist to make that sibilant sound. Tucking a piece of loose hair behind her ear, she lowers the camera, adjusts the lenses. For a warehouse like set, she’s surprised there aren’t too many other people around, and the only one wearing Designer labels is the woman modeling it. Every one else is assisting – the lighting, the make-up, the hair. Her jeans are paint splattered, her shirt missing buttons. “You can break for a moment, honeydew.”

Olivia doesn’t know what a break is, but she thinks of snapping bones and a sort of endless hunger. Her shoulders keep stiff, her smile lingering, like she expects a camera to be on her anyway. She twists her hands together and asks for a cigarette. When the blonde lights one for her, a new woman walks in – she’s dark and quick-eyed even behind her sunglasses, expertly walking on four inch stilettos, somehow making a pencil skirt look more obscene than professional. She hands a polished leather briefcase to an overly eager assistant, murmurs something in a burning voice, then goes to the photographer carrying expensive cappuccinos. Olivia thinks two things: first, the woman has a shoving air about her, a demanding quality that makes her think she might be close to running this show, and secondly, there’s at least 500 calories in one of those drinks alone.

Emere hands Maine the coffee before she can ask for it, shifting her weight to a curved hip.

“You’re late. It’s past coffee time.”

“It’s never past coffee time.”

Fidgeting with the camera, Maine cleverly keeps her face devoid of expression, her tone light. “I’d be late too, if I had a model to fuck before – “

“You do fuck models.” Pointedly, Emere glances at the one sitting five feet from them. Her eyebrow is arched high, and she grins. Beneath her couture, Olivia feels hot, feels nervous, still feels empty. She isn’t used to such casual banter – she’s used to barking demands and the fast-paced rush of needing one shot after another. This job is deceivingly easy. She takes a drag of her cigarette and almost chokes when the brunette steps forward, bringing the heavy aroma of perfume on her wrists and coffee. “Too dark.”

“Fix it in editing.” Maine stops with the lenses, but she takes her time sipping from her drink, obviously amused.

“My hair?” Olivia asks, even when Emere sets her coffee on the floor and starts to unravel some of the pinned up curls.

“Your shirt, actually, cara. I asked for a lighter green. You’re supposed to be showing off those jewels you’re modeling – “ she taps her dusky fingers on the emerald bracelets around the model’s wrists, adjusts the large pendant hanging above the blouse. “ – not making them blend in.”

“…And you would be?”

“I’m the one paying you. You can thank me sometime.”

Maine scoffs from behind them. “She’s the advertising exec. Otherwise known as God, for this hour.”

“I’ve been called it for longer.” Emere taunts, and Olivia wants to blush with the insinuation – but she’s not the blushing type, so she settles for a smile that hurts her teeth. Stepping back, she bends delicately at the knees to retrieve her cup before finding a spot beside Maine. “Make sure you – “

“I know what I’m doing.” But Maine’s voice is still light, and she threatens to spill coffee on the other’s shirt – a thread count that Olivia can tell without touching is ridiculously high. Must be like feeling rabbit ears, she thinks. She watches, becoming surprisingly less concerned as the seconds pass, when Emere almost hisses like a cat and quickly steps away. Her heels are so sharp they make a noise every time she walks.

Olivia would feel like a voyeur if she thought these women were uncomfortable with being watched. She finishes her cigarette and thanks the make-up artist that appears with the ashtray and a fresh layer of lip-gloss.

“I need to make a phone call. Don’t let her sit too stiff.” Emere has her cell phone in her hand before she finishes the sentence, but her assistant still looks awkward, like she’s fumbling, and Olivia realizes that she must be new. And scared of losing her job, since she trails at the Italian’s ankle like a loyal pup until it’s kicked away.

“Tell Mia I say ‘Hello, Gorgeous.’” Maine yells too loudly.

“That’s the worst fucking Barbara Streisand impression.” It isn’t, and she might have retorted differently if the line wasn’t answered, but Emere moves to the other side of the room for her phone conversation – the side with even less people, keeps her voice soft like melted chocolate.

“Ready?” With the camera up, Olivia can’t see the photographer’s eyes anymore. Just her mouth, seemingly forever smirking.

She straightens her shoulders and nods, focusing elsewhere, relaxing to the shuttering metal sound.