And nobody’s looking at her, that’s what I can’t believe. They’re not. Most of the guys here, studio animals who band together like a bunch of nomads, are standing around and chatting up some golden-haired starlet with a white jacket and a smile, and that’s fine. Totally cool. Whatever makes you happy, right? She’s the obvious one, anyway, I mean, when you look around the room, take all the women in with the quick glance, she’d be the one that you might first be drawn to. The body. And the face. Fashionable slacks and purse. That flash of expensive white inside her mouth. The teeth are nice, I’ll give her that. You have teeth like that, you’re halfway home in this town. But the other woman, the one I’ve been following with my eyes—over there by the sushi tray now and taking drink orders from industry types who don’t seem to see her because she’s married and over forty and isn’t wearing anything leather—has a different sort of deal working for her. A kind of pouty-lip mystique that reminds me of Jeanne Moreau. The way she was in that film; you know, the one that broke her out big; The Lovers, I think it was. See, Jeanne’s the wife of some newspaper guy, and she drifts into an affair or two. Wearing these big floral print dresses and that look in her eyes. Well, this woman I’m watching here has that same type of thing happening for her. That thing that says, “As a matter of fact, yes, I am a woman, what’s it to you?” And that’s why I keep staring at her.