“Wow.”
“I know right?” Candace does one of those hip bouncing side to side pirouettes, her hands flipped out like a tutu.
“Did they lighten your brows too?”
“Duh of course” she says. She gives me a sharp smile flashing her recently straightened, newly whitened teeth. I’m trying to reconcile the image in front of me like a newly turned vampire looking into a mirror. I might as well be looking into a void – my twin has been Anglicized beyond recognition. Only a lab could discern the Panamanian, Jamaican and Egyptian bits, they’ve been overrun by the Scottish and Irish.
“Why are you taking photos for an album cover before you even have an album? I’m just…” I shrug the rest of the query. Apparently they can’t get into the studio until the end of July, it’s April.
I think about Tia Rosa and what she’d say about carts and horses and eggs and chickens, but I say nothing because I’m not Tia Rosa. And this airbrushed creature in the vertiginous heels is not my sister.
8 min, April 15, 2014 @ Dandy Espresso, UES, NYC
prompt from Fault Lines – three plays by Nicolas Billon
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