Meteor Shower

Mr. Pickers and Ms. Walsh gazed at the stars. A warm breeze drifted from the ocean. Ms. Walsh leaned back in the reclining garden chair and stretched her legs. “So relaxing,” she sighed. Her blond hair fell in waves over her shoulders. She untangled her fingers from Mr. Pickers’ hold and reached for her Chardonnay. The flames in the fire pit flared up. Sparks fell on her bare shins. She leaped up. “Yikes!”

The breeze hurled itself at Mr. Pickers and splayed its chilly fingers across his face. The front of Mr. Pickers’ toupee lifted half an inch. He perspired a little. I hope she didn’t see that. He shot a quick glance at Ms. Walsh.

Ms. Walsh’s neck was set at a tight angle. She shivered and tightened the blanket around her body. “Can’t wait for the meteor shower. I read somewhere that in the old days people thought meteor shower signaled the end of the world. ”

Mr. Pickers downed his glass of Chardonnay. “I need a hat,” he muttered. He squeezed his shoulders and hustled towards the house.

He is a fake. Ms. Walsh swallowed hard. Men disappointed her. They resolutely walked into her world, promised her stars. Once they felt secure, they revealed all the ugly bits. Mr. Pickers seemed different. He didn’t invade her world. He didn’t talk much, he just was. Her chest burned with anger.  

Mr. Pickers returned with a beer, chips, and a hat firmly set on his head. The toupee was gone. “Here, have some chips,” he passed the bowl to Ms. Walsh.

“When were you going to tell me about the toupee?” Ms. Walsh steadied her voice.

“I wasn’t. I didn’t think we would get this far,” he admitted.

Ms. Walsh’s neck relaxed a little. “But why wear one?”

Mr. Pickers took a long swig from his bottle. “I like to take time with my women. I follow the moves, get to know them better. If I spot cracks in their stories, I take off.”

Ms. Walsh’s stomach cringed. “So, you are saying that the wind was no accident?”

“No, silly, I didn’t plan that. But sure as hell you are not who you say you are.” He took a bite at a chip.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that we all have our little secrets.”

“Really? So what is mine?”

“You are a country girl who wanted to start all over. Five plastic surgeries and two tummy tucks totally changed your looks. And that sparkly blond hair? Hairdressers can do wonders these days.”

She gulped and clenched her teeth. “Well, I did a little research on you too, smarty pants. Your girlfriend disappeared,” she hissed. “I wonder where her body is. Under this fire pit, perhaps? Or in the foundation of the…”

She couldn’t finish her sentence. Her eyes bulged out. Saliva trickled down her cheek. Mr. Walsh’s grip tightened around her neck. His knuckles went white. “You take that back, bitch.”

But she couldn’t take anything back. She lay limp in his grip.

Mr. Walsh let go after ten minutes. She fell to the ground.

“Cut! Let’s roll again. Don’t say ‘smarty pants,’ you sound like my mom. Guys, turn down those fans. It doesn’t look realistic. The rest was good.”

Barbara looked at her throat in the mirror. She had red marks from Pete’s fingers. It burned. “Can I have someone cover these marks? Forget it, I need a cig.”

“Take five, everyone,” yelled the director.

Barbara grabbed her pack of cigarettes and ran to the edge of the forest. That grip was real, she thought. She pushed her hair back to light a cigarette. Pete appeared right in front of her. He looked apologetic. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to squeeze your throat so much. I just got into the whole scene so much, you know.”

“Pete, what the hell? You really scared me,” Barbara’s voice broke. She instinctively touched her neck.

Pete chuckled nervously. “Sorry, I… Someone accused me of a murder a while back. Eventually, the police found her body in the desert miles away from my house. I had an alibi so they couldn’t connect me with the crime. All charges were dropped.”

“For real?” Barbara’s voice tensed. “Good, then you are in the clear.” She turned away from him sharply. She felt his eyes at the back of her head. “Well, my break is over.” She squashed her cigarette stub against a tree and walked towards her trailer. She glanced back. Pete was gone.

“Hey, I need to talk to you,” Barbara whispered in the director’s ear.

“Sure, what’s up?”

“Not here. In your trailer in five minutes.”

“I am married you know,” the director laughed.

He met her in exactly five minutes. She paced up and down at the front of his trailer. When she saw him, she stumbled. “Hey, you are on time.”

“Well, it sounded urgent. What’s going on?”

“Remember Pete clenching my throat? I still have finger marks from his squeeze. So I confronted him and he told me that he was accused of murdering a friend a while ago but because he had an alibi, the charges were dropped. I really got spooked. I don’t think I can go through with this scene.”

“I know.”

“Can I get a replacement for that scene? Can Michelle do it? Wait, you knew?”

“Yes, I was his alibi. We played poker all night. Listen, I already spoke to him. He promised to loosen his grip. It has to be realistic though but he can’t squeeze you that hard. He is one of the best actors for murder scenes. I need him and I need you too. You two work well together.”

Barbara turned around and ran to her trailer. She rummaged through her stuff but her phone was gone. The floor of the trailer creaked. The director stood at the door. She looked at his hands and saw a knife.

“His wife killed herself. She slashed her wrists. You are going to do the same,” he muttered.

“Let’s start the scene again, enough slacking off,” yelled the director. “And action.”

Mr. Pickers and Ms. Walsh lounged in the reclining garden chairs. “So exciting,” piped Ms. Walsh and brushed her red curls to the side. The fire was warm. They looked at each other and intertwined their fingers. “Can’t wait for the meteor shower,” murmured Ms. Walsh as they gazed at the stars.