#FiveSentenceFiction: Desolate

“Victor, I’m twenty six. That’s a hundred and five in model years.” ~ Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama

Model They’d cut her last shoot down from one hour to forty minutes, an ominous sign.

As she walked into the studio she saw the usual lineup of girls waiting, very young – younger than ever she thought – and half naked, and it hit her like lightning: she was now a has-been.

The photographer was rushing her, no longer the admiring hulk he once was, she felt mortified, his tone of voice hardly hiding his impatience.

She had only one haste now: finish the shoot, get dressed and leave this desolate landscape, leave behind all the falsehood, the pretending, the jealousies…

Then she thought of him, the calm man she had rejected so many times, who had told her to come to him once it was over: would he still want her now, now that her supermodel career was gone?

9 thoughts on “#FiveSentenceFiction: Desolate

  1. Excellent post my friend. Twenty-Six equals one hundred and five…I think I’d rather be a dog or a cat. At least when they get old they are still loved.

    Like

  2. I adore you ..I hope you know this mon ami. Your words are stunning …bellissima! Grazie for sharing! Bells Xxx (btw…I never stopped following u…just accidentally hit a wrong button earlier this morning **kisses sweetly on ur cheek**)

    Like

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