Figaro perched precariously on the window sill. His frivolous mind wagged his tail while he gazed at the sight below on the overcrowded streets of Los Angles. His penetrating focus and the constant flicking of his tail was only broken by the unfathomable sound of the can opener. Cleo greeted her kitty warmly, giving him a loving scratch behind the ears. He was getting on in years, time weighed upon the old cat. His fur didn’t shine the same, his once bright eyes weren’t as sharp, but she loved him all the same. The extra weight he had gained this past year was prominent as he sauntered towards his dinner. Satisfied that her cat was now engulfing his food with a ferocity of a Tasmanian devil Cleo turned away to unwind from her tiresome day. Her feet sighed in relief as she kicked off her Jimmy Choo knockoffs and collapsed on the red divan.
Memories of her day flooded back as she lay with her eyes closed and her hand upon her brow, a damsel in distress. Yet again one of their clients was not happy with the way “Posey Modeling Agency” was treating her. The screaming match blared its way into Cleo’s head.
“Ow dare you! Do you think I will stand for this? I could work for anyone in this town but I chose you people! And what do I get in gratitude? Nothing! I refuse to work for people who are stunting my career and holding me back from bigger and better things!” the diva’s syrupy voice was heavily accented with Italian. Cookie Giovanni’s ranting continued in this fashion for what seemed like hours to Cleo. It was amazing how many times the model mentioned herself in the conversation, after the fifteenth time Cleo lost count. Cookie Giovanni had continued in this melodramatic fashion for what seemed like hours to Cleo; never once taking a breath as she attempted to inflict guilt upon the insignificant secretary for ‘Posey Models’, and conjure feelings of self-pity for her “tortured soul”.
Cleo was woken from her trance when her overweight cat pounced upon her, plunked himself on her stomach and began to purr. Her initial shock was soon replaced with a warm surge of love when the scruffy tabby meowed demanding to be stroked. Cleo loved how in tune her cat was to her emotions.
After their brief cuddle, Figaro was left to sleep on the suede pillows while Cleo prepared her mundane Lean Cuisine.
“Basil chicken and wild rice, fantastic,” she murmured her tone dripping with sarcasm. As the dish revolved around in the microwave, Cleo reluctantly went to check her messages. The machine tauntingly blinked a fluorescent two. Cleo was surprised, ‘Not just one message but two?’ she thought. Usually the jeering machine blared a big, fat zero, highlighting Cleo’s loneliness further. Ridiculous thoughts of secret admirers skipped into her mind. She waved them away as usual and timidly pressed the play button.
“Cleo! Baby! How are you doll face? Listen, I need you to work longer hours on Saturday. It’s gonna be busy, busy, busy. You know with fashion week nearing, phones will be constantly ringing and who better to answer them than you sweetheart?” Cleo’s eccentric boss, Markus’, voice squeaked out of the speakers like a Chihuahua’s on uppers. “So we’ll talk later, kisses!”
Cleo immediately erased the message, exposure to her boss at work was hard enough, and no way did she need it at home. Her disdain for Markus had now increased since hearing the message. ‘Working longer on Saturday?’ she sighed, ‘it’s not like I have anything better to do’.
The monotone voice on the answering machine informed her that her second message was about to be played.
“Cleo, Cleo?” Cleo panicked it was her mother, she must be in town. As a reflex to the sound of her mother’s shrill voice, Cleo’s hand flew to her mouth and began to gnaw on her pathetic stubs of fingernails, a habit that her mother despised and took every chance to chide Cleo about the matter. “How are you sweetie?” Why did everyone feel the need to ask how she was? “How about we do lunch sometime, I was thinking that new place on the corner around from Melrose Avenue, Scott recommended it”. “
“Oh, so it’s a ‘Scott’ this time.’ Cleo bitterly noted. The ‘Scotts” were the only reason that Sandra Casings ever came to the city, not to visit her only daughter but to get her heartbroken by some two-faced guy who filled her mind with false promises and treated her like a hotel.
If Cleo was lucky, Sandra would grow tired of this one before he did of her. This prevented a one-sided, hysterical phone call at 3 in the morning with Sandra bawling her eyes out while Cleo listened, barely able to keep her eyes open.
“So anyway honey, give me a call when you get this.”
Cleo deleted the second message from her answering machine and her mind. An electronic beep sounded from the poor excuse of a kitchen, telling Cleo that her cardboard meal was ready.
She flopped herself on to the couch, engrossed with a documentary on ‘E!’, about Britney Spears, Kevin Federaline and all of his baby mama’s, while she choked down the fancy TV dinner that was supposed to make her thinner. No such thing was happening to Cleo, her size eight hips hadn’t budged an inch since her co-worker/best friend, Leah, had suggested them. All they seemed to have to have done to Cleo was produce more gas which exposed itself in the most embarrassing form at the most inopportune moments. “Maybe you’re not eating them right?’ Leah had said after Cleo had confined this little problem to her.
Leah was the sweetest girl, not to mention sickeningly beautiful, but there wasn’t much activity in the intelligence department. But Cleo still loved her to pieces. It was hard being best friends with a five foot ten Greek beauty. Whenever the two went out, it was depressing for Cleo knowing that all the stares that were being thrown in their direction belonged solely to Leah. With her bountiful black wavy hair, olive green eyes and legs up to her ears, Cleo found it hard to even compensate with her tomato colored locks, her face abundant with freckles and her puppy fat that hadn’t seemed to have melted when puberty had hit as her mother had promised her.
m not too sure about it.