"I think we need to take you to the hospital."
"I've been."
Kristi comes to the door. She looks in my eyes but doesn't scan me.
"Why have you been to the hospital?"
"Didn't you just say why?"
She says, quieter: "Why have you been to the hospital."
"Because my headaches are really bad."
"What causes them."
I'm silent.
I almost cry.
Then I do cry, and I hold the bottle up to my mouth.
I set it on the side of the tub and wipe my lips with the back of my hand.
"If you want a ride to the hospital let me know. Do you even have health insurance?" this 20 year old asks me.
I blink through tears.
Kristi's arm slides down the door frame and she turns to go.
"Wait. I'm sorry."
"It's hard for you not to keep people at a distance," she says.
I nod, hating having her see me this way.
"You've been hurt really bad, haven't you?"
I don't need to tell her yes.
"Look, we're all here for you. Even Shelly Kind. I bet if you walked into his office and explained the situation he'd give you a hundred grand to help you out until you finish your film. Ask for help," this young girl tells me.
She starts away from the bathroom again.
"Wait. Help me get up. I'm not sure I can stand."
And Kristi turns sideways to get through the narrow doorway blocked by a tall shelf. And she comes into the bathroom and helps me stand. And she puts her hands around my arm and I push up with the other one and together we stand. Then she dries me non-erotically and lets me do my private parts and we walk into where Friends is playing and she brings me her pajamas and helps me step into them and cover up.
I sit.
She brings the bottle of wine in and pulls a glass off the mantle and looks at me like We're gonna do this right while she pours and she hands me the glass and we sit, properly, and watch reruns, and I know my ejection handle is sitting right next to me, two feet away, on a plush red couch the likes of which I've never seen.
When I stop crying, Kristi passes me her phone and says Watch this.
I take her giant phone and watch.
And laugh.
And laugh.
I can't help myself.
"Are you going to favorite it?"
"It's your phone!"
"But I mean like in a metaphorical sense. Would you fave it?"
"No."
"But you're cracking up."
"It's a people video."
I hand the phone back.
Kristi's like huh?
"It's just about the girl. It's just: here's a pretty girl, let me put her on camera. You can tell a guy made this."
"Or a lesbo."
"I'm sorry. Excuse me for my heterocentric assumptions. I was born a decade before you. I love cock by the way."
K laughs.
"I can't tell if you're kidding."
"It doesn't matter, guy or girl, the person who made this video was looking at her cute friend and she said to herself: Self, let me put this sexy little bitch on film. The whole video is about how cute she is. This shouldn't be a video—this should be a snapshot."
"So you're not gonna fave it."
"Fuck no. If they showed her nipples I'd fave it."
"Like if she was naked?"
"No! Like if she wasn't wearing a bra. I want to see some nipple if I'm going to favorite a people vid."
We go back to watching TV, and I catch Kristi glance at me, proud that she made me laugh.
I'm at the mantle pouring wine and she's watching me again, getting my wine to just the right place in the glass.
"What are you doing?"
I put the bottle down on the mantle and walk back to the couch.
Kristi's watching me, waiting for an answer.
"Obsession, obsession! Every little thing to me is a piece of art. A wire isn't just a wire, it's a sculpture! When I set my earbuds down, for example, I roll them up in my fingers, then I set them down on top of a surface, then I let go. And when I let go, they become a little sculpture, unique every time—this loop going this way and that loop going that way, and I nudge it and prod it and re-lay the loose ends of the wire until the sculpture pleases me. That's what I mean by obsession. Some people might call it preoccupation, in the sense that it's paying attention to things that don't matter! But they matter to me, every little dot, every strand of hair, every angle, every cut, right down to the fucking frame."
I'm sitting now. I sip my wine.
"And that's why you're a director."
K is staring at me.
"And that's why I'm a director."
She stands up.
"I want you to read something."
When she comes back, she comes back with a script.
Freak Show, by Kristi Lee.
I flip through the pages. Read a few lines.
Then I settle in and read.
I slump down and hide behind the script.
She has me crying again!
I even stop drinking once I realize it's good.
I'm there for two hours and I sober up for the duration of the read. I peek at Kristi every once in a while. She's watching her phone and I'm like Did this girl write this?
Kristi sits quietly with me until I set her script down.
"This is great."
Kristi asks me if I stopped drinking.
"You mean for good? Fuck no."
I get up and make myself a gin martini.
"It wasn't that good. I'm kidding. Kristi. This script is a rock, it's a wave. Marcus Aurelius would be proud. And if you ask me who Marcus Aurelius is, I'll fucking punch you in the face."