My Cardboard Balcony

Tonight's Masked Man by Belinda Roddie Tonight's masked man was smoking tangerine cigarettes and eating soup, his face warm and oily from the lamps carrying the aromas of rosemary and garlic. As he lifted a strand of beads dangling from his left brow, he stirred his spoon around the bowl and made green tidal waves in the confines of black porcelain. The waitress could not stop staring at the strange array of yarns and feathers lining his jawbone and golden wasp cloth covering the spots where stuff hotter than grease spat vitriol across his cheeks and nose. He never would remove the cowl. But to the girl, he should.

"Lights, camera..." "Wait, wait!" I rolled my eyes and backed away from my filming position as the star, Samantha Kelliorson, waved her arms frantically for the director to step in. As he did so, I realized how heavy his eyelids appeared to be - gray blinds against his eyes. He needed more coffee, or something, to get through this. "I just don't feel right, Bradley," Samantha was saying. "I'm just not in the moment." "I'll put you in a moment by slamming the camera literally into your face," I muttered.