Six Sentence Sunday

Today, ladies and gentlemen, I give you something complete different. Today I give you a sneak peek into Zoe’s world. Enjoy

“I have a recurring dream. A nightmare actually. I don’t think I’ve slept a full night in weeks.”

Get a load of this broad, would ya? She’s sitting there wringing her hands smelling like a French whore and looking like an American high-dollar call girl. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous wearing haute couture. Prada by the looks of it. Louboutin shoes. Louis Vuitton handbag. Her expensive make-up tries to hide the bags under her eyes and the worry lines creasing her brow but I see them. I can see right through her.

I know money when I see it. I came from money. But family money isn’t what keeps me afloat these days. It’s schmucks like her.

The girly part of me envies her expensive outfit. The practical part of me knows I should keep my outfits dark and dreary. The kind that includes a lot of leather and boots so I don’t stand out in a world where someone like me doesn’t want to stand out. It’s hard for me blend in with my black hair and lavender eyes.

Someone once told me I had an aristocratic face—high cheekbones, a long slender nose, perfect arched brows. I always thought I was sort of plain looking. And I’m tall. Five foot ten in flats. Just one step away from being a side-show freak.

I know who she is but she thinks I don’t. I know she’s a B-movie actress who’s trying to make it to the A-list. She’s no Julia Roberts though she flips her curly long hair like she owns the place. She glances around, looking at the sparse décor in my office.

“So how can I help you?” I fiddle with the stylus. As if I don’t know. No one comes to Enter Sandman—that’s my sleep therapy practice and the coolest Metallica song ever—just because they want to get some shuteye. There’s always someone or something to blame.

She’s probably being stalked in her sleep by some crazy fan, so one of her actress pals told her about me. My office is sandwiched between a frozen yogurt place and a yoga joint in West Village on the outskirts of downtown Dallas. Someone must have used some serious powers of persuasion to get her here. It’s a far cry from Hollywood and it’s clear to me she doesn’t enjoy being here.

I’ve dream walked for an elite group of celebrities which means I can charge an exorbitant amount for my services. I mean it’s an obscene amount and these people will pay it. I’m the one laughing all the way to the bank when I cash their checks. It’s not like I don’t help them, though. I do. And I’m damn good at it, if I say so myself. Hey, no one else is going to pat me on the back.

She gives me a glare. “I heard Zoë Cavanaugh was the best. That’s why I’m here but I don’t want it getting out I came to see a therapist.” She says therapist like it’s she has acid on her tongue. Bitch.

“I am the best,” I say.

“So you can help me by getting rid of these horrid nightmares,” she snips, her tone sour. She puckers her lips in annoyance. “That’s what you do, right? That’s what I was told.”

“Who told you?” I ask this more out of curiosity than anything. I don’t really care who referred her because I can always use the business and the cash flow.

“That doesn’t matter,” she snaps. “I don’t have all day. Are you going to help me or not?”

“What’d you say your name was?” I look at her, trying to place a name with her face. I can’t think of it and I don’t exactly have IMDB handy on my tablet. When I get bored, I go to the movies. I’m bored a lot. What is this gal’s name? Why can’t I remember it?

“I didn’t say.” She presses her overly-collagen lips together and looks out the window. Outside, the traffic whizzes by at breakneck speed. Horns honk. People shout. Sirens wail. Dallas traffic stinks. “Can we get on with this? I’m in a bit of a rush.”