Collette is in the middle of her hyper enzyme microdermabrasion Photolite facial therapy when her Blackberry starts to chime with that Diddy ringtone she'd downloaded off the Internet yesterday. The dermatologist, a thin, harsh woman with plump skin and perfectly white hair pulled back into a severe bun, flicks her eyes over to the device as a silent communication that Collette is free to take a break and answer it, if only out of annoyance at this obnoxious intrusion.
"Sorry. I'm expecting an important call. Do you mind?" Collette asks, sitting up in the reclining space-age treatment chair and reaching for her purse, an alligator skin Gucci bag with her initials spelled out in white diamonds inlaid in a swirly cursive font. She digs through the bag and retrieves the Blackberry, eyeing the caller ID. She's about to answer it when she glances over with barely guarded impatience at the dermatologist, who has pushed her rolling chair over to the counter and is sorting through disinfected tissue swabs. "I kind of need to take this in private."
The dermatologist doesn't turn around, but her stiffening posture and the deep sigh she lets out while snapping off her rubber gloves and throwing them into the garbage tells us all we need to know about what she thinks of Collette. Without answering, the dermatologist leaves the room, which is when Collette answers the phone with a roll of her eyes.
"Reginald, hi. No, sorry, I'm at the dermatologist's. No, no, it's okay, she left the room. With what I'm paying her she should be giving me a mani/pedi and some Shiatsu. So what's up?"
Reginald's voice can be barely heard leaking out of the earpiece Collette's wearing, but it's clear enough: "I'm sorry, Collette, but they re-cast the picture. They weren't willing to meet your price. They went with Nicole instead."
Collette can't speak. The Blackberry slips from her fingers and falls to the floor, where it shatters the battery case door free from its hinges, sending 4 double-A's skittering in all directions. Collette is shaking violently as she rises from her seat; she grabs the operating light and swings it around, over her head, until she's gotten enough speed and strength to hurl it at the window with the 10th story view of Beverly Hills beyond. The glass explodes outward, letting the cool autumn wind blow through, sending Collette's recently dyed and set hair to flutter stiffly.
As she steps up on the ledge and looks out at the beautiful sky, the street far below, she can hear a commotion behind her as the dermatologist and a male nurse rush into the examination room. She can almost hear them call out her name, though it's faint and seemingly in a faraway dream, as she takes that step off the ledge, falling into the air.
The dermatologist rushes the window just as Collette's Manolo Blanik's fly off her feet and spin impossibly up into the air, seemingly in ultra slow motion, before they, too, fall to the street below. She looks out and down in time to see Collette's body land in a shattered heap on Wilshire Boulevard and get run over by a speeding black Hummer with tinted windows and spinning rims.
She turns to the male nurse. "Get the check she gave reception and bring it to the bank. Deposit it immediately." The nurse nods, his face working hard to hide his horror, as the dermatologist looks around with disgust at the mess that has been made of her examination room. "And somebody bring me a broom!"
"Sorry. I'm expecting an important call. Do you mind?" Collette asks, sitting up in the reclining space-age treatment chair and reaching for her purse, an alligator skin Gucci bag with her initials spelled out in white diamonds inlaid in a swirly cursive font. She digs through the bag and retrieves the Blackberry, eyeing the caller ID. She's about to answer it when she glances over with barely guarded impatience at the dermatologist, who has pushed her rolling chair over to the counter and is sorting through disinfected tissue swabs. "I kind of need to take this in private."
The dermatologist doesn't turn around, but her stiffening posture and the deep sigh she lets out while snapping off her rubber gloves and throwing them into the garbage tells us all we need to know about what she thinks of Collette. Without answering, the dermatologist leaves the room, which is when Collette answers the phone with a roll of her eyes.
"Reginald, hi. No, sorry, I'm at the dermatologist's. No, no, it's okay, she left the room. With what I'm paying her she should be giving me a mani/pedi and some Shiatsu. So what's up?"
Reginald's voice can be barely heard leaking out of the earpiece Collette's wearing, but it's clear enough: "I'm sorry, Collette, but they re-cast the picture. They weren't willing to meet your price. They went with Nicole instead."
Collette can't speak. The Blackberry slips from her fingers and falls to the floor, where it shatters the battery case door free from its hinges, sending 4 double-A's skittering in all directions. Collette is shaking violently as she rises from her seat; she grabs the operating light and swings it around, over her head, until she's gotten enough speed and strength to hurl it at the window with the 10th story view of Beverly Hills beyond. The glass explodes outward, letting the cool autumn wind blow through, sending Collette's recently dyed and set hair to flutter stiffly.
As she steps up on the ledge and looks out at the beautiful sky, the street far below, she can hear a commotion behind her as the dermatologist and a male nurse rush into the examination room. She can almost hear them call out her name, though it's faint and seemingly in a faraway dream, as she takes that step off the ledge, falling into the air.
The dermatologist rushes the window just as Collette's Manolo Blanik's fly off her feet and spin impossibly up into the air, seemingly in ultra slow motion, before they, too, fall to the street below. She looks out and down in time to see Collette's body land in a shattered heap on Wilshire Boulevard and get run over by a speeding black Hummer with tinted windows and spinning rims.
She turns to the male nurse. "Get the check she gave reception and bring it to the bank. Deposit it immediately." The nurse nods, his face working hard to hide his horror, as the dermatologist looks around with disgust at the mess that has been made of her examination room. "And somebody bring me a broom!"
posted by morphitologist at
9:34 AM
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