At 8:22, the studio still smelled of floor cleaner and reheated coffee. Benny preferred that hour, before bodies brought their fatigue, their lateness, their subway stories, and the small negotiations required before you could ask someone to fall onto someone else without breaking their nose.
He had laid six strips of black tape on the floor. The seventh refused to stick.
“It’s dead,” Célia said behind him.
Benny smoothed the tape with his thumb.
“It’s damp.”
“That’s a very professional way of saying it’s dead.”
He straightened. Célia already had her knee pads on, a sweater tied around her waist, and her hair held up with a pencil. She had left the studio door open; in the corridor, Romain could be heard talking to the delivery driver who had been searching for “Mr. Rives” since the ground floor.
“Close it, please.”
“Are you making us work without heat again?”
“The heating sounds like a Polish boiler on the recording.”
“We’re not filming today.”
“It’s a matter of principle.”
She closed the door with half a smile. Benny picked up the roll. On the table, his computer displayed the rehearsal plan he had revised at four thirty. An entire column had shifted from Romain’s name to Célia’s. It was not a decision yet, he kept telling himself. Only a way to be ready if the decision became necessary.
End of excerpt. Discover the other stories in this universe.