“When they stop taking pictures, darling, it’s all over,” she said, lighting a fresh Satin cigarette. She spoke with a languorous yet sophisticated southern accent. “I maintain a Faustian pact with the paparazzi. We both hold up our ends of the bargain, my dear.” She kissed a delicate sip from her martini.
“How do you stand it? Being the center of attention all the time?”
“How do you stand being a nobody all the time? I’m teasing, of course my dear. I meant no offense.”
“People adore you.”
“And I adore people, darling. The road to fame must run both ways. It’s the little people who endow me with gratitude, my dear.”
“It would drive me crazy. The constant attention all the time.”
“My life is never dull. That’s why I got into this business in the first place. An average life just wasn’t in the cards, darling. I find normality frightfully boring. My fame has become my nourishment, dear. I’d simply starve to death without it.”
“Again. That would be crazy-making for me.”
“Oh, stop behaving like such a child!”
“I’m only seven!”
“Then brush your teeth and head to bed, darling.”
“Okay, mom.”
“And don’t forget to arrange a press conference in the morning.”
“I won’t mom. G’night.”
“Bonne nuit, my dear. I mean that. Really I do….”
Crumbling Asphalt 