It started with an exposed shoulder, glistening like humid aluminum,
a dressing room door held ajar, and a rumor spread like warm syrup.
Then, in the first of countless dares, they cherry-bombed the logo
at the studio’s west entrance, shot-gunned a platter of complimentary
sodas, crashed through a dress rehearsal by scooter. She held onto him
as if they never left that Vespa. Love stayed simple so long as it was risky.
They lived swimming pool to swimming pool with no one on duty.
Extras crowded their soundproof booths. Paparazzi swarmed like
bubbles in a freshly corked bottle of the stuff that made them sparkle.
They threw caution to the Coke machine but it came out the coin return.
The dull orange light reads empty now. The slogan changes and it changes
their tune. When they get bad hair days, they have to cut their own tangles.
They age but assume younger faces. When they fudge the lines, they
get no second take. Their affairs are not settled in the twist of a cap.
