Hourglass

The read-through a week earlier had been a disaster. Morden and Simons had sat as far apart as was humanly possible at a round table and said their lines to each other with an icy politeness that robbed them of meaning, or a bored mumble. Sure, no one expected a cold reading to be Oscar-material, but the tension had been palpable. The only time they'd behaved like professionals was when the script called for them to talk to someone else. For those scenes, they'd taken their heads out of their asses and actually given him something resembling a glimmer of hope that this movie would be halfway watchable.

"Son, the writers put a palomino in that scene," Ben said with his friendliest, scariest smile. "If you want to be the one to tell them that you couldn't get them what they wanted, if you want to be the one to destroy their artistic vision, just trample it to the ground, then go right ahead. They're in that little room beside the men's john."
"The broom cupboard?"
"Is that what they're calling the writers' room these days?" Ben inquired innocently. "Like the green room or something?"
"No, I think it's actually a --"
"Go away," Ben said softly, with emphasis, tiring of the game.

If this was a movie, the script would call for him to splash water on his face, stare at his reflection in the mirror, maybe punch a wall. Ash didn't want to do any of those things, which just went to show how artificial scripts were. He sat on the toilet, with the seat down, and stared at the floor, a spotless white tile, subtly patterned with swirls and with an iridescent gleam.

"You're just one tangled mess of hang-ups and issues, you know that?"

Let me know when you've stopped emoting and I'll finish the foreplay and get to your favorite bit."

Lee laughed. That was Ash all over. If he was issued a halo in heaven, he'd probably ask if it made his ears look big. "You make bed head look good, trust me."

"That was just perfect," she declared.