Yakaterina Golubeva belonged to a one star studio. If she left, the studio went under.
She looked like a goddess. She wore Spartan sandals buckled around her delicate ankles, olive branches in her hair, and fabrics loose and light enough to betray every goosebump on her slip of a body.
The producers followed her around like snakes on their bellies.
She would turn her head toward the camera and get each scene in one take. She never rested in a trailer and time was never wasted. She took every opportunity to gracefully wait her turn.
One evening, once they’d all called it a day, the director was walking through the lot to his car and he saw a slim figure bending over the edge of a dumpster. Her legs kicked in a sequined dress as he could see the upper half of this woman must be struggling to reach something. He stared, perplexed, wondering if he should offer to help or run off to call lot security.
The sparkling torso straightened. The heeled shoes cracked onto the pavement. When he saw the loose curls, cleared off her forehead with the back of her hand, he finally recognized Yakaterina. She opened her hand and he saw a glint before she snapped her fingers closed again.
“Yakaterina!” he called. She looked around, startled and began to step forward when she saw him. Her foot landed unevenly on her shoe and she stumbled.
He ran to her, asking if she was alright, if there was something he could help her find.
“Whatever do you mean, Georgy Vitsch?”
He said, “I just saw you…” and he motioned to the dumpster.
Yakaterina rose as if a balloon was lifting her, slowly and evenly. “Georgy Vitsch, I don’t know what you’re trying to say and I don’t think you do either. Could you walk me to my car? I’m always a bit nervous to walk by myself so late like it is.”
Georgy said, “Of course…of course.” He offered her his arm, but he didn’t want to let it go.
“Thank you, Georgy Vitsh. Such a gentleman,” and her eyes slipped him a message he read in depth, alone in his apartment that night.
She looked like a goddess. She wore Spartan sandals buckled around her delicate ankles, olive branches in her hair, and fabrics loose and light enough to betray every goosebump on her slip of a body.
The producers followed her around like snakes on their bellies.
She would turn her head toward the camera and get each scene in one take. She never rested in a trailer and time was never wasted. She took every opportunity to gracefully wait her turn.
One evening, once they’d all called it a day, the director was walking through the lot to his car and he saw a slim figure bending over the edge of a dumpster. Her legs kicked in a sequined dress as he could see the upper half of this woman must be struggling to reach something. He stared, perplexed, wondering if he should offer to help or run off to call lot security.
The sparkling torso straightened. The heeled shoes cracked onto the pavement. When he saw the loose curls, cleared off her forehead with the back of her hand, he finally recognized Yakaterina. She opened her hand and he saw a glint before she snapped her fingers closed again.
“Yakaterina!” he called. She looked around, startled and began to step forward when she saw him. Her foot landed unevenly on her shoe and she stumbled.
He ran to her, asking if she was alright, if there was something he could help her find.
“Whatever do you mean, Georgy Vitsch?”
He said, “I just saw you…” and he motioned to the dumpster.
Yakaterina rose as if a balloon was lifting her, slowly and evenly. “Georgy Vitsch, I don’t know what you’re trying to say and I don’t think you do either. Could you walk me to my car? I’m always a bit nervous to walk by myself so late like it is.”
Georgy said, “Of course…of course.” He offered her his arm, but he didn’t want to let it go.
“Thank you, Georgy Vitsh. Such a gentleman,” and her eyes slipped him a message he read in depth, alone in his apartment that night.
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