On Tuesday, Moira spends the whole day sitting on the red leather couch, watching television, sometimes watching the wall behind the television. For sixteen hours, Moira watches soaps, game shows, news programs, sitcoms, talk shows, infomercials. In that time she only moves three times: twice to urinate and once to make popcorn. She does not answer the phone; she does not speak to anyone.
* * *
On the other end of the line, she can hear the phone ringing.
"Hello?" says a voice, a man's voice. The voice is choked, almost muffled.
"Daddy?" Moira says.
"Moira?"
Moira doesn't say anything. She can't think of anything to say that wouldn't sound pathetic. She holds the cordless against her ear and twists a lock of hair. She stares at the hardwood floor.
"Baby, are you all right? What's wrong?"
She thinks of Derek, of her dead mother, of the fact that she spent all yesterday doing literally nothing. She even thinks of telling her father she's in therapy, knowing full well how much that would set him off. It's all pathetic. She can't lie to him.
"You okay, Moira? Do you need some more money?"
"I --" she starts, then almost gives up. She decides to tell the truth. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
Now it's her father's turn for silence. Thirty seconds goes by before he speaks. "Do you realize what time it is, baby?"
She hears a noise and turns around. She watches her bedroom door close. There's no one else in her apartment but the bedroom door closes. She hears the soft click as it shuts all the way.
* * *
"Are you an actress?" The man who says this has introduced himself as Bruno. He says he's a film director. He has salt-and-pepper hair, high cheekbones. He's wearing gray chinos, a black sweater. His tan is unquestioningly fake.
Moira can see Derek from where she sits on the terrace. He's speaking with a blonde girl and an elderly woman. They're holding drinks and laughing.
"I'm Julia Roberts," Moira says.
Bruno laughs at this. "Seriously. Are you an actress? Are you looking for work? I know some agents."
A crowd of well-dressed people moves in front of her, blocking her view of Derek. The air is cool but not quite cold. There are stars in the sky. The city is beneath her. Everything, even her drink, seems to sparkle in the cool air.
"I want to ask you a question," Bruno says.
Moira sips her champagne, smokes her cigarette. "All right."
"What would it take to get you to sleep with me tonight?" Moira smiles lightly. She thinks she's drunk. The crowd of people disperses before her and she sees Derek is gone. The blonde girl is gone, too. The elderly woman is still there.
Moira downs the rest of her champagne and tosses the glass off the balcony. Look out below, she thinks. "A gun," she says to Bruno. "Fuck off."
* * *
