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Flour coated my skin, seeping into every groove my palm volunteered. There was caked up brownie batter on the back of my neck, as well as some blueberry filling. I needed a shower. Desperately. I needed to scrub the sugar off of my skin, rinse the sweat from my scalp, slip beneath my lilac-hued duvets, and sleep for the next twenty years.
But I was running out of time.
The last showing for my best friend, Lucky's, one of many blockbuster films had been scheduled for nine o'clock. Tonight. It would be his fourth feature film. He starred in an action film just last year alongside Neal Hansen, the man I'd swooned over as a teenager. Truthfully, I still do. It was a post-apocalyptic movie, and his most serious role.
This film in particular is the one I have been the most excited to watch. It's a whodunnit flick, paying homage to Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. He had been especially secretive about it, and upon telling me, I think I may have blacked out completely.
Agatha Christie is my Roman Empire.
He landed a leading role as Dr. Armstrong. I was over the moon after I'd recovered from my blackout, and still am.
