Joe had seen it all before.
He was feeling blasé about his short film being screened at the Astoria International Film Festival. He'd finished the short, as far as he was concerned, more than two years ago. Everything after that was the slog of post-production and publicity. He'd long lost interest in it, shuffling along with the ghosts of residual momentum and a self-inflicted sense of duty of not letting the cast and crew down.
And this scene could do with some editing.
Cut to Joe outside on the sidewalk of an empty cobblestone street of brick warehouses lined on both sides with parked cars beetling into the dark. Joe checks his messages on his phone. Faint blue-white glow from the screen spilling onto his face. A tungsten street lamp frisks his strung-out shadow against the wall behind him.
Pan to girl who appears suddenly from nowhere at stage right asking if he has a light.
Got a light?
I don't smoke. Sorry.
The girl shrugs.
She is small with oversized eyes curtained by bleach-blonde bangs. Her breasts are small and high. She is in a threadworn sundress bed-of-flowers cut mid-thigh. Shoulders kissed by catchlights. Black Allstars.
Cut. Medium shot. The two stand side by side looking square at the camera.
Fade out. Voiceover. Male.
She liked long walks, German Expressionism and listening to Wolf Parade. They were Canadian and they gave her great pleasure.