Posted: 11/22/2013
Near the end of our scene together, as I delicately removed your burned and tattered jacket, hesitating just long enough for the camera to push in on the previously unseen bottle cap–shaped hole in your side, you let slip one last whisper of pain. You were like a plastic bag squeezed of all air, and in that moment you made a believer out of unnnamed Quiet French Woman, twenty-five, White, with light brown hair.
When the director yelled cut, you sprang to life, leaping up out of my arms and stretching yours to the ceiling before proceeding to hop up and down and pop your neck from side to side, loosening up between takes. You turned and scanned across the set, waiting to see if they needed us to run the scene one more time, and you acted like you didn’t recognize me fr
