Any Old Actress

It wasn’t that she disliked the blonde, so much as Christine wouldn’t let anyone like her. She’d badger a person with advice and should-haves until they started avoiding her out of sheer concern for their own sanity. And then she’d show up lecturing you about manners and ready to make over your entire wardrobe (since, of course, a person wouldn’t know how to dress themselves), and you were never allowed to have an entire right opinion to yourself. You were always wrong on some minor point.

But Christine viewed supervillainy from a high-school architecture. She saw herself as a vinyl-clad prom queen with a penchant for flame throwers. X had long ago discovered that self-appointed authorities made it their business to know things. Christine in particular seemed to ooze with information and connections, and so it paid to stay on good terms with the busybody. X didn’t need to be right that often, she could afford to indulge notions of friendship.

X took a deep breath, steeling herself. She ran her fingers through her hair, straightened her cuffs and collar, made sure her buttons weren’t crooked. She pasted on a cordial smile, and opened her door to discover her sometimes ally poised to knock.

“Christine! At this hour! What a surprise.” She strained to mask the sarcasm lacing her words. She had to repress a fit of giggles at Christine’s appearance, which ill-timed though it was, lent an enthusiastic edge to her greeting.

Christine moved past her to perch on the edge of the comfiest chair. “Like it’s late for you? You know you’re a night-owl. Why just the other day I saw you out at 3 in the morning!”

X turned away, as though to fasten the door, and closed her eyes tightly. Nevermind that she was wearing pajamas, obviously ready for bed. It wasn’t late. She could be wrong again, she was awfully curious about the blonde’s discovery. X sighed, and turned back to her guest who had made herself comfortable, tapered black ankle boots propped on the ottoman, busily arranging the cute fitted jacket she’d worn.

X took a seat in the corner of the sofa, and curled up, leaning on the arm, ready for an ardurous conversation. “Can I get you a drink or anything?”

“Oh no thanks, my doctor says I shouldn’t eat or drink in the evenings - bad for my digestion. It’s much too late for me to take anything.” Christine scrunched her face up. “Do you smell Tupperware? I swear, something here has that plastic-y new smell - it’s just like my mother’s Tupperware parties.”

X looked around as if to find the source, struggling to maintain a straight face, and to avoid staring at Christine’s vinyl ensemble. The girl’s plastic pants squeaked when she moved, and the wide rubber belt she’d added left her stiff, unable to bend at the waist. When X replied she’d achieved a fairly innocent tone. “Hmm, no, I don’t think I smell anything. But you know me, smoke inhalation has just ruined my sinuses, I wouldn’t really know.”

“You know, you really should see someone about that. It’s just not healthy to go about with respiration problems, I’m going to refer you to my doctor sometime - remind me to get you his number the next time I have my Dayrunner handy. I usually have it with me…” Christine reached for her purse, troubled over the missing object.

X nodded attentively, her listening face completely wasted on the distracted guest. “Of course! I’ll have to remember that. Strange though, you’ve almost always got your book with you. I can’t even imagine that you’d lose it.”

Christine looked up - suddenly remembering. “That’s right, I had it out when I picked up my dry cleaning…” She shrugged. “I’ll never see that book again. You wouldn’t believe how those idiots ruined my good pants - you drop something off to freshen it up, cut the smoke smells, and they send it back with butane stains set into the material - and wrinkled too!”

X narrowed her eyes, wondering… Since when did Christine run her own errands? “Oh don’t I know what that’s like. It’s just awful. I dropped a blouse off once, and when I got it back all the buttons were missing, it had these little runs in the sleeves and…”

“How can you be sure though? You know you’re hard on your clothes - you could have lost the buttons yourself, or snagged it before you sent it to be cleaned. Look at what you’re wearing now - none of your buttons match, you’ve got an awful burn in the shoulder,” Christine sighed at the mess X had made of herself.

“Yeah but…” X gave up without bothering to defend her buttonless blouse. “Forget the dry cleaners! What’s going on anyways? You made it sound like someone died or something.”

“Well it’s nothing that tragic, ‘though Y definitely has a death wish.”

X swallowed her growing impatience, and lowered her voice. “Go on and say it Christine. What’s happened to Y?”

Christine sat up in the cushy chair, eyebrows arched with interest. “Nothing yet. Of course, I don’t expect that to last, he’s practically running a suicide mission.” She smiled, aggravatingly sweet. “I’m really surprised you even care about the old guy - he seemed pretty hard up when he showed up at my place.”

X shifted in her seat and reached for the candy dish on the end table between them. She picked it up slowly and offered it to her guest - the graphite implants glowed a dull red in her carefully exposed wrist. She smiled gently, with a sincerity that even Christine could recgonise. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a Fireball?”

Christine hesitated, mouth pressed tight and slowly took a hard candy from the dish. “Never could resist a jawbreaker.” She giggled under her breath to hide her sudden anxiety.

X took a candy for herself and unwrapped it noisily, settling into the cushions comfortably. “Well go on Christine, tell me all about this special mission. I love a good gossip as much as the next girl.” X grinned conspiratorially, gauging her guest’s discomfort.

Christine coughed, choking on the hot cinnamon.