Circling celebrities like paltry little sharks, that was the premiere. We sat in a grand theater and frantically inhaled free popcorn. Martin Scorsese spoke, he was short. I trailed Mark Ruffalo into the after party and watched his handler speak to him in soothing tones, shepherd him through cameras. I stood behind an eccentric old woman and perhaps exist in photographs, somewhere. She had red crayola lipstick and tufty grey hair. She wore a sly, pleased smile.
Coat check was downstairs and took an impossibly long time to reach. The crowd ground to a gridlock stop and we peered above heads, confused. Oh, Leo. The cameras snapped and flashed. His hair was combed back like his character in the movie, divided in straight grooves by a comb and copious hair gel. He wore a smug smile, deservedly so I suppose. People slapped his back and hollered, "Good job, buddy!" They looked depressed when he failed to respond.
We found perches and peered down. We shrugged and gobbled desserts, slurped sweet champagne.
At home I felt heavy. The heat was off in our apartment and I curled up in a ball on the bed in my fancy wool coat. The fabric was stiff around my arms. Somehow I washed my face and removed my contacts, shed my darling black dress in a heap and found a tee shirt. I was asleep mid conversation and woke up bleary, melancholy.
I went to work and came home. I watched the Olympics and heated up Chinese mustard greens.
