Friday, March 13, 2009

The Floater

You’re young and beautiful. You smile with rehearsed enthusiasm and well practiced gaiety.

You are 22 years old.

Everyone in the room is at least 7 years your senior. The bar full of grey suits is your infinity pool. Breathing heavy (fumes of juniper, lime, and quinine), they’ll watch without blinking as you splash around; eagerly waiting their turn to have you swim though their waters.

You show them your back stroke.

Throughout the evening you pose naturally for your newest friend: the Facebook paparazzi. Its photographers are anywhere and anyone: unknowingly covering your story. You like the idea of a publicly private kind of fame.

You’ll review the rushes tonight before bed.

Making your way to the bar to refresh your glass, you slip through the eyes of several men waiting to talk to you. Blowing by them quickly, they bend over to retain eye contact like a dandy lion to a moving car on the side of a highway; a Porsche you hope. They return to their conversations just as quickly as you pass. Fishing for your wallet in your purse, you get nervous; your BlackBerry isn't where you left it.

Suddenly, you become very, very anxious.