82 “Ross,” she sighed

_____ _____ had been watching “Entourage” faithfully, as many re-runs as her schedule allowed. She thought the series might be a harbinger for the whole drift of the industry. Young and fun and too busy to be terribly cynical. If it could be portrayed without irony how Vinny Chase, super cutie, starred as Aquaman, maybe there was room for an equally adorable FriscoWoman, given the right, good script. She’d ask Ross if one of the Frisco Ninja’s disguises was screenwriter. His personae yielded so much in the way of detail.
She thought she saw a shooting star by daylight as she leaned back in Ross’s Mustang. She felt good about her career, even, oddly, her whole life. It was like being in “Entourage” for the moment. Everything was exciting and positive. And none of it had been handed to her, except by God’s great gift of her surface. She knew where every penny she’d earned came from, and what she’d had to do for the opportunities. From sweating extra long on the barre when she was nine to forcing herself to go to industry parties even after she was dead tired at nineteen. Taking high school as seriously as she would have taken college, because she knew she didn’t have time for college, not the American dream version. And taking college classes at night, to develop breadth, when she was auditioning and playing small parts by day. Always tired. Always seeing through the tiredness.
“Ross,” she sighed.

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