Polly clicks her high, fuck-me heels and bolts fast. Physical reality is frightening. Perpetual primary perceptions can hurt.
At the door, security holds the “late last night?” grin. Bastards. Those bloody mothers of theirs. Why don't they just leave their dummy nipples around, so these idiots can leave the rest of us alone? Sisterhood, my left toe!
Home – camomile bath – forget about this morning. Do some work. Phone. Fumbling around the handbag to find it.
SFX: Firm fear.
SFX: Hesitant, lingering euphoria.
Carlo: “Hi – pretty Polly. Great night. What happened this morning? I wanna see you now!?”
SFX: Insecure anger.
Polly: “I'll call you. Ciao.”
Men! There's never anything cheap about them. You pay with torn tights and crinkled confidence. Why don't they take their cue from Vidal Sassoon's shampoo and let us 'fuck and go'?
Polly works. Works hard. Well, until lunch anyway. Another bloody luncheon meeting. Thank God for Professor Sante: no bread, no carrots, plenty of red wine for those proteins and vitamins. Wondering if this editor is gonna buy. Usually the creature just appears in her supercilious cuts in the latest “in” colours, and they always clash with her freckles and credit cards. Another puppy that grew into a bitch: she knows how to swiggle her intsy bottom to anybody's tune except her own buried sickness.
Spilled the wasabe again. Churlish thing is Samba-dancing on the Gigli poshmina. Whose idea was it to serve it with steak tartare? She buys. Cool. What a stupid woman. You spit on them and they think it's raining. What does she want to do with a series of Somalian refugee photos in Armani at Marx's grave anyway? It's the blasted Benetton hangover. No cure. Or perhaps a Bloody Mary with yet another neo-New Age, “caring” twist. Vegan Worcestershire Sauce! That's what she's brewing up and people will buy it.
Afternoon. Same. More work. Is it a love-drudge or something I do? Polly picks up the photographic paper. Damn, the fridge is open. Film doesn't like heat. The paper is light-sensitive. Everything is needy. All gone to waste. Maybe a Polly – ograph — Irresistable puny pun: Eat your heart out, Man. Ray.
Anything in the fridge apart from film? Great; a bottle. Darkroom red lamp shimmers – red. What else? Shucks, this reminds of a ravaging bull, balls and bliss. Of last night! Twist. Twist the top. Twist the bottom. Steady. Hold the rhythm. Let it rhyme. Foam flows at leasure. Never anything better than a few drops from the Champagne region: nature's valleys pushing up heaving hills without a wonderbra.
Scoff. Feel better already. Oh no, this morning again. Vicious glare of light.Why does Carlo have to have a fucking mirror right in front of the shower? “Bet it's bad Feng Shui. Brainy bod”, our Carlo. Clever big fellow, isn't he? Polly remembers: movements; their pirouetting motives. Hold me. Shower. Water. Body-heat. Ah. Spoilsport. Why oh why the Mefisto mirror? And who is Mefisto?
Polly, concentrate on your print. Here, burn it in for a few seconds on the right hand side. Dodge that blob.
Can't concentrate. Blobs! Shite and sugarlumgps. Fuck this morning's sight! Why can't I dodge those real blobs on my bum?
Pretty Polly indeed. Getting old. Damn delirious decadence. Damn tequila tenderness. Damn unrepenting youth! All ends up as cellulite corrosion in Carlo's mirror! Turn the other cheek to reality. Not your frightening, depressing bum. The face, Polly! Phew, no wrinkles yet. Good old Nivea. Thirty-eight years of Nivea, and selling touched-up liposomes to the rest of them. Serves them right, if they wanna wallow in their sedentary self-afflictions. It's a cornea conspiracy of secondary perceptions. Who's the sucker in this game? Who really knows?
Sip. Sip the bubbles and you shall have air. But quickly. Even bubbles will give up on silver spoons.Uh, that mirror again. Why does innate reality insist on reflecting itself on inane, reflective im+perfections? Whatever! Fuck it! Really fuck getting real!
Polly shakes her six I Ching coins. Confucius or whoever says:
“Possession of the Great.
He who collects cellulite-infested consciousness will cross the great water.
Fat deposit will swim on top.
Come again? Polly phones Carlo.
SFX: Hopeful anxiety followed by Ephemeral Duet.
Polly: “Hi, Pleasure. I'm coming over and I'm gonna fix your bathroom lighting. It sucks?!”