We find her blathering in the corner about new gods, new configurations for fingers wrapped delicately about throats hungry from dread.  Her position is not one of solidarity; she would have them all burnt for their indescretions.  For all the times they abandoned her panting in the snow, the gelid air flicking its tongue between her matchless thighs.  Yet, she loved the cold.  She wanted to remain, frolicking, fevered, ecstatically pursuing a pulsating measure of carnal truth.  Yet, the leather whip, extended from hard, coarse hand, would not appear if she wished it so.  She was forced to explore the cool contours of his black cherry Bentley in her agile mind. 

She would first smell the leather seats and the licorice and run her fingers along the creases with trepidation and an angelic thimble of fear.  She would listen to the metallic clanging,  the brutal posturings  coming from the radio and gasp.  It was seven days since he took her by the hand.  Seven days of breathing carefully lest she forget the smell of his aftershave.  He lifted her up in his impossibly strong arms and placed her lovingly beside him and he drove.  For hundreds of miles he never lost that affected, charming smile that she swore was only for her.  They danced together, did the waltz and the Charleston.  They played at tables and won huge sums of money she would spend on exotic flowers that she would  press in her hair.  They played the part of man and wife and took great care to avoid the main roads.  Each stop was taxing, as the threat pursued them past farms, dilapidated tractors, dotty sheep.  They found a place for each one and drove quickly before the soil could settle.  Each one brought new pleasures to be savored, thrilled by, and the moment of realization could not come quickly enough.  That moment when silent screams cascaded down the interiors of those room within which they plied their trade.  

The first face was the starting point.  It brought all of this into clear, snapping focus.  The camera captured her in sultry poses, succulent stares into the cold void.  Those first moments when we realized how far she was willing to go to dance closely, solemnly with the corpse of fame.  She wanted it all:  the long faux fur coats, the drug habit, seven roles in seven films showcasing her range as an actress.  Yet, we had to get past this first roll of film.  We made her so many promises that first day.  We raised her expectations, we told her if she moved a certain way she would quickly reach her ultimate goal.  We positioned her most specifically,  body moulded in tiny, iconic postures, frail gestures, and impassioned sobs that merely added to the overall effect.  On cue she would contort her long limbs into any tableau we might consider.  She would pirouette daintily, delicately, and laugh at our abjectness.

Alas, she has absconded with the plans for the next big score.  She has moved toward those glittering lights and we'll soon watch her writ large soiling the screen with her bodily secretions.  Her face will demand devotion and her hands will gesture emphatically or softly depending on what the scene calls for.  Seven films.  Seven characterizations from the feline to the fractured.  Seven chances, reasons to devour the flesh and begin once again.