"Why do you want me to put it on?"
She holds the white dress up in front of her. It is a scoop-neck white T-shirt dress, long-sleeved, flared at the hips, cut just below the knee. It took a little searching to locate one, but I finally found it at a Salvation Army thrift store in Upper Darby. The dress is inexpensive, but on her figure it will look fabulous. It is the kind of dress that was popular in the 1980s.
Tonight it is 1987.
"Because I think it would look good on you."
She turns her head and smiles slightly. Coy and demure. I hope this won't be a problem. "You're a kinky boy, aren't you?"
"Guilty as charged."
"Is there anything else?"
"I want to call you Alex."
She laughs. "Alex?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Let's just say it's a screen test of sorts."
She thinks about it for a few moments. She holds the dress up again, stares at herself in the full-length cheval glass. The idea seems to appeal to her. Finally.
"Oh, why not?" she says. "I'm a little drunk."
"I'll be right out here, Alex," I say.
She steps into the bathroom, sees that I have filled the tub. She shrugs, closes the door.
Her apartment is decorated in the funky, eclectic style, a decor comprising an amalgam of mismatched sofas, tables, bookcases, prints, and rugs that were probably donated by family members, with the occasional flourish of color and individuality purchased at Pier 1 or Crate amp; Barrel or Pottery Barn.
I flip through her CDs, looking for something from the 1980s. I find Celine Dion, Matchbox 20, Enrique Iglesias, Martina McBride. Nothing that really speaks to the era. Then I luck out. At the back of the drawer is a dusty boxed set of Madame Butterfly.
I put the CD in the player, forward to "Un bel di, vedremo." Soon the apartment is filled with longing.
I cross the living room and ease open the bathroom door. She spins around quickly, a little surprised to see me standing there. She sees the camera in my hand, hesitates for a moment, then smiles. "I look like such a slut." She turns to the right, then the left, smoothing the dress over her hips, striking a Cosmo cover pose.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
She giggles. She really is adorable.
"Stand over here," I say, pointing to an area at the foot of the tub.
She obeys. She vamps for me. "What do you think?"
I look her up and down. "You look perfect. You look just like a movie star."
"Sweet talker."
I step forward, camera raised, and push her gently backward. She falls into the tub with a great splash. I need her dripping wet for the shot. She flails her arms and legs wildly, trying to get out of the tub.
She manages to rise to her feet, soaking wet, appropriately outraged. I cannot blame her. In my defense, I made sure the water in the tub was not too hot. She turns to face me, rage in her eyes.
I shoot her in the chest.
One quick shot, bringing the pistol up from my hip. The wound blossoms on the white dress, spreading outward like small red hands offering benediction.
She stands quite still for a moment, the reality of it all slowly dawning on her pretty face. There is that initial look of violation, followed quickly by the horror of what has just happened to her, this abrupt and violent punctuation of her young life. I look behind her to see the thick im- pasto of tissue and blood on the venetian blind.
She slides down the tile wall, slicking it crimson. She sinks into the tub.
With the camera in one hand and the gun in the other, I walk forward, as smoothly as I can. It is certainly not as smooth as it would be on a track, but I think it will lend a certain immediacy to the moment, a certain verite.
Through the lens, the water runs red-scarlet fish struggling to the surface. The camera loves blood. The light is ideal.
I zoom in on her eyes-dead white orbs in the bathwater. I hold the shot for a moment, thenCUT TO:
A few minutes later. I am ready to strike the set, as it were. I have everything packed and ready. I start Madame Butterfly at the beginning of atto secondo. It really is moving.
I wipe down the few things I have touched. I pause at the door, surveying the set. Perfect.
That's a wrap.