It was not working, again.
Samantha walked from the set with eyes downcast. She wanted to shed her own skin. To dive into the undergrowth and never return. But then the media would raise its panting head, and the rumours would spread like a sickness.
She heard movement behind her and picked up an umbrella from the rack, turning to face her heavy-browed co-star. Before speaking, his tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, testing the air.
‘You need to bring more to the scene. I’m sick of carrying you.’
His verbal venom delivered, he turned to slither away. Quick as thought, she tossed the umbrella up and caught it by the end, swinging it around to hook him by the ankle. A sharp tug. He lay squirming in the gravel, his legs moving like a squeezebox.
‘You want more? Really?’ She loomed over him, voice raised loud enough for the crew to hear. They stopped their work and began watching intently.
‘You’re making a scene,’ he hissed.
Samantha let the umbrella fall to the ground as she crouched beside him. He was in her shadow. He only shone when the sun soaked his scales. She smiled, showing a flash of white.
‘We make the scene together. If it’s not working, that’s not on me alone.’ She rose and offered her hand. His eyes locked on hers, unblinking, before coiling his fingers around hers and rising sinuously.
The sun broke through the clouds as the crew began to clap. The actors basked.
Katie Willow is a mum. She is editing her first novel and writes micro, flash and short fiction.
Photo by Luke Jones on Unsplash
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