Was I always this quiet?

I was.

Did it not get boring?

No, not ever.

I was careful not to move during these conversations – I did not want to draw attention to myself even though I was on display. They had caught some of the films I had been in and you know what? I wasn’t nearly as hot in real life.

I was scum, trashy, that was the word, repulsive. Et cetera. They called me other names too. Wholly unimaginative stuff. Plain lazy.

Then there were others, who were worse. Smart and careful – they made assumptions. From whatever they had learned in college, they were concerned my self-esteem might be on the lower end of the spectrum. I said, ‘Of course, I have low self-esteem. You think I would be standing here talking to you if I didn’t?’

I entertained one or two of them, those who made a true first impression: new disasters. I liked conversation and challenging situations. If they pushed me, I pushed right back. Why not? I bit down hard on my bottom lip. There was blood drawn, but it didn’t bother me. I promised myself this would all end, at some point or another.

Many took greedy fistfuls of mints before they screeched off. I had to get Kevin to watch the till as I refilled the bowl. I had to be alone. I needed to rub my hand across my mouth and face while comforting myself with scenarios: telephone poles springing from hallowed ground, hard, unforgiving walls stretching soundlessly across the motorway, bodies thrown into the starless night.

I wasn’t feeling good about myself. I wasn’t feeling relaxed and it showed.

One evening, Kevin approached me with the bare and battered plant. His voice was not far from tears. ‘What happened?’

I looked at the plant. ‘We had a falling out.’

I returned to rearranging the chairs, my freckled back sadly exposed.

*

More and more people began drifting into the garage forecourt on a daily basis to watch Kevin and me. These ‘customers’ had no single defining characteristic; they were fuzzy, unfamiliar. It was as if Kevin and I blinked them in and out of existence. The garage was not our place anymore. Often, the strangers feigned indifference but their eyes followed us, their gazes alert as we performed. I was not aware my town had people like this. Middle-aged bodies in stretched jeans, with sharp, angry jaws. They rarely sat, instead they loitered around the chairs, exuding a dangerous energy. Occasionally, they made pointing motions, fraught signals as if guiding Kevin and I across the garage forecourt. Sometimes, they clapped their hands against their knees and cheered us on.

Management advised us to engage with them and I did. I asked questions like: ‘Is my hair nice pushed back?’ and ‘What have I done to deserve this life?’ I came back to life in their presence, was strangely reassembled as a homely hostess, with her hands spread wide open. I did not know who I was fooling, them or me.