"How long did it take Charlie to wash the blue clay out of his beard?" I ask as I walk over towards Deandra and lay my towel on the patio chair beside her.
"Foooorever!" she laughs back. I guess giving each other makeovers while plastered on margaritas wasn't the smartest idea after all.
"I still can't believe you hadn't washed them off by the time I went to bed," I say as I kick off my flip flops and start to apply sunscreen to my arms. They must've had the clay on their faces for at least 7 hours.
She reminisces for a second and laughs while shaking her head. "I love that guy," she says.
"Yeah, me too." I tell her as I pull a trash mag out of my bag and lean back in the chair. Who couldn't love the complex-full-of-contractions-bends-the-way-your-brain-is-trained-to-classify-things-but-it-doesn't-matter-cuz-he's-just-so-real-and-warm Charlie?
"You better be nice to that Detective," Deandra coos from behind a script "I don't want to be dealing with crazy Robert for the rest of my life."
I smile at her. I'll be nice. But just to keep up the fun of the banter I say, "Well...maybe if one of us wasn't so desperate for a date that they'd entertain anyone they meet on the Internet; then maybe neither of us would be in this situation."
I let it hang there for a moment to see how she'll respond.
"Bitch," she says without looking at me.
I readjust my lounger and roll over so that my shoulders and back can get some sun. I'm suppose to be handing in the first Act later on today. It's mostly written, but I just want to give it a once over with fresh eyes before I send it off.
Deandra is quiet. I hope I didn't upset her.
"Be nice to me," I say to test the waters "or I'll take out that part I'm writing for you in the movie."
She doesn't respond.
I flip over and pull down my sunglasses to see she is crying.
"What's wrong?" I say as I scan around for a tissue -- knowing full well that there probably isn't one.
"I don't understand what I did to deserve this," she says and starts to sob a little louder. I scoot over to her chair and put my arms around her, and let her cry it out for a minute or two.
I pull back and look at her, "I don't think you've done anything to deserve this." I say. This isn't about her at all.
"Well, then why do I have some crazy obsessed stalker who's gone AWOL and could hack me to pieces any second?" she says in a hysterical tone.
"Um...." I start in an effort to bring this down about 4000 notches, "because....he's crazy. Him, not you."
"Yeah," she snorts back "but I must have done something." She's in full-on sob mode. Her shoulders are rising and falling 3 to 4 inches as she hyperventilates her words through her tears. I feel really bad for her.
"Look at me," I say after a moment.
Eventually she does. She has this pout on her face like a little child.
"All you've done," I say with a big encouraging smile "is be your awesome self. And Robert, who isn't feeling so awesome, has decided to latch on to you in an effort to capture that and feel better about himself. He's empty."
I pause for a second...maybe that's what I saw? An occupant of an empty soul?
"Yeah," she says as she wipes the snot away with her wrist, "but it doesn't make this any more pleasant for me."
"Of course not!" I say and stand. There's a fun song playing softly on the radio that she brought out. I walk over to it and turn it up. I walk back to her and grab both her arms to try and encourage her into a dance-a-thon on the patio. Very Grey's Anatomy season 1 and 2.
"I'm not in the mood," she whines as she stands and starts to half-sway to the music.
"Deandra," I scold "everyone is always in the mood for Rihanna!"
And before she has time to respond I push her into the pool; then jump in after her. Moments later I remember the snot on her wrist and console myself into thinking that there is (hopefully) enough chlorine in the pool to dissolve it.
For now, Rihanna is doing a great job of cheering up Deandra from her mild, but understandable, panic attack.
