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Eyes closed she thinks of him. Imagines him by her side, arm around her, brushing her mini coat, the coat he had inspired with his touch. It wasn’t over, not yet. But it was definitely complicated, love misplaced in the mire of what they had become. What he had made her. What he had made of himself.
They’re playing his song now, as if to torment her. The sound caressing the air outside the hotel. The opening riff electric, lyrics addictive, the song another thread in the Impossible Girl mystery. It was the most downloaded song internationally for the past two months. He too had become a success, a public entity.
His critics ascribed the bands success to the IGirl phenomena and his relationship with her. It was a sword in the side of their once passionate alliance. Stupid really, she had always felt like the symbiont to his creative self. It was only one of the swords anyway; there were others that cut deeper. That dream had all but collapsed.
Still she makes fashion. Spends hours cutting, painting, sewing, transforming. Inspired by the dark, cutting at the ugly until she can expose its raw beauty. An ongoing obsession, a desire to distill elegance from the gloom to find strength in life’s weakness. She used to think it was about expressing herself, now she fears it is to find her self. An attempt to recover an impossible something from the endless rolls of black textile.
Roly would say it was all for the money and that this was a worthy enough cause. Champagne and luxe hotels. What else could she possibly want? Perhaps he had a point.
‘You can’t be a fully satisfied hedonist with integrity. Just thinking you can is greedy,’ he would say.
Roly was her manager, faithful assistant, number one wheel in the publicity machine. He was the true sculptor of IGirl, had molded her for public consumption. He knew everything and nothing about her. He didn’t know her secret. Would he care anyway?
They’re playing his song now, as if to torment her. The sound caressing the air outside the hotel. The opening riff electric, lyrics addictive, the song another thread in the Impossible Girl mystery. It was the most downloaded song internationally for the past two months. He too had become a success, a public entity.
His critics ascribed the bands success to the IGirl phenomena and his relationship with her. It was a sword in the side of their once passionate alliance. Stupid really, she had always felt like the symbiont to his creative self. It was only one of the swords anyway; there were others that cut deeper. That dream had all but collapsed.
Still she makes fashion. Spends hours cutting, painting, sewing, transforming. Inspired by the dark, cutting at the ugly until she can expose its raw beauty. An ongoing obsession, a desire to distill elegance from the gloom to find strength in life’s weakness. She used to think it was about expressing herself, now she fears it is to find her self. An attempt to recover an impossible something from the endless rolls of black textile.
Roly would say it was all for the money and that this was a worthy enough cause. Champagne and luxe hotels. What else could she possibly want? Perhaps he had a point.
‘You can’t be a fully satisfied hedonist with integrity. Just thinking you can is greedy,’ he would say.
Roly was her manager, faithful assistant, number one wheel in the publicity machine. He was the true sculptor of IGirl, had molded her for public consumption. He knew everything and nothing about her. He didn’t know her secret. Would he care anyway?
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