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it.
     
    LAUREN
    (Voice-over: This man is slow. Are all white men this slow? I guess I have to spell it out for him.) I meant, (poses) do you like what you see of me?
     
    HOT GUY
    (Looks her over.) Should I?
     
    LAUREN
    (Voice-over: Maybe I need to be blunt.) Are you interested ?
     
    HOT GUY
    In you?
     
    LAUREN
    (Voice-over: No. In the vase, you idiot!) Yes. In me. Do you want to go out, maybe hook up, maybe go back to my place and get a little busy?
     
    HOT GUY
    My husband might mind. . . .
     
    LAUREN
    (Voice-over: Figures . . .) I’m sorry. I thought . . . Yeah, I wouldn’t pay a penny over four dollars for that sorry vase....

    Oh, this is tragically stereotypical! Lauren thought. The first white guy she tries to hook up with is gay. How often does that happen in real life? Okay, it happened to me—with my third try—but come on! I know art can imitate life, but it’s almost as if A. Smith wrote this part specifically for me!
    After nothing from Patrick appeared in her in-box, Lauren settled under her covers and fell asleep, and for some reason, she dreamed she was shopping for vases....
     
     
    The next morning, Lauren showered, ate a light breakfast of toast and grape jelly, and stood in front of her clothes closet.
    What I wear today has to show that I am capable, confident, and competent, she thought . I can’t go slinking out past the paparazzi looking defeated. I have to wear something that says, “Hey, Lauren Short looks great! Her breakup hasn’t hurt her one bit! That woman still has it going on! She has come out of this mess with flying colors!”
    She laughed at herself.
    I have to stop taking myself so seriously. It’s only a reading, and no matter what I wear, someone in the media out there will make something negative out of it. I’ll probably end up on some worst-dressed list by the end of the week.
    She put on comfortable jeans, a turquoise blouse, a black blazer, and some black Dansko clogs. This outfit says I’m comfortable and I’m ready for anything.
    I hope I’m ready.
    Lauren walked out to her emerald-green 2008 Jaguar XK convertible, a vestige from her more successful days, and past only three paparazzi camped out today near the pool. None of the photographers rushed her, instead lazily snapping pictures of her as she walked by.
    “Where are you headed?” one of them asked.
    Lauren opened her car door and got in. As soon as she started up the Jaguar, she put the convertible top down. “I am going to a reading.”
    The tallest of the three photographers approached. “You up for a movie?”
    “TV,” Lauren said. She adjusted her mirrors and put on some cheap sunglasses.
    “So soon?” the tallest one said.
    “I have to get back on the horse,” Lauren said. Though this show may be my hearse.
    “What show?” he asked.
    “It’s called Gray Areas, ” Lauren said.
    “Never heard of it,” he said. He shrugged at the other photographers, and they shrugged back.
    “It’s in the pilot stage now,” Lauren said. “You’ll hear about it soon.”
    They took several more pictures and turned away.
    I am definitely losing my appeal, Lauren thought. Seven years ago a swarm of photographers would have been here, and they would be daring me to run them over. I wonder how much they can get for a picture of me now.
    “Hey!” Lauren yelled.
    The tallest photographer strolled over. “Yeah?”
    “What’s the going rate for a picture of me these days?” Lauren asked.
    He shrugged. “As much as I can get, I guess.”
    “Give me a ballpark,” Lauren said. “A thousand?”
    “Not the way you look,” he said. “I’d be lucky to get two-fifty.”
    Ouch. “And how do I look?” Lauren asked.
    He snapped one more picture. “Happy.”
    Lauren smiled. “I am happy.”
    The man sighed. “Happy doesn’t sell.”
    “You mean if I came out here all sad and dressed horribly, you’d make more money?” Lauren asked.
    “Yeah,” the man said. “You’re supposed to be . . . I