Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of The Paradise.
Anniversary
You sit at your pathetic little desk, in your pathetic little cubicle, at your pathetic little job. What makes this all the more pathetic is that it has become a routine. Your routine.
The girl set for stardom. Set for stardom, and working a nine-to-five job.
"Well," You hear a passing coworker, Sally or Anne or maybe Paula, mutter under her breath, "Whaddya know?" A folded newspaper is clutched in her left hand, a coffee cup proclaiming It Could Be Worse in the other. Her body is resting against the wall, her eyes locked on the newspaper, but she is clearly addressing you. You make the international 'Elaborate please' noise in your throat, your gaze fixed on the task at hand, your fingers typing away.
"Today is the tenth anniversary of that record producer's death," She says, tossing the article down on your desk. You glance at it, then nudge it back towards her. She shrugs, as you pretend you don't care, pretend that you didn't already know that.
You bite your lower lip in an effort to stop it from quivering in her presence. And once Sally or Anne or maybe Paula is fully out of ear shot, you collapse onto the gray carpet, under your pathetic little desk, in your pathetic little cubicle, at your pathetic little job, and sob. You sob for the pathetic little life you lead.