True, it was an excuse to speak to him. Come on, even the ghosts in this town are dead, and I go to movies alone. So I ask the gorgeous French film director why in the next shot there was no blood on the refugee’s tee-shirt after she’d eaten the live chicken’s heart and spattered her white cotton with blobs of red gore. He looks at me with those steamy Leo eyes but I don’t spill my Pineau or drop my blini, says he kept the faux accord though he’d watched it forty times before some keen-eyed aficionado spotted it. Says it was a better take, so he left alone; incorporated error for art’s sake. The master. What’s more, he knows this criticism means: so glad I made your avant-première, I’ll lambaste your brilliant Cannes-acclaimed film because this isn’t some well-rehearsed moment when I deliver some über-cute line some slick-ass scriptwriter thought up, and even if I had that line, Chéri, I’d need directing.
(First published in Vine Leaves Literary Journal: a collection of vignettes from across the globe, November 2017)
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