Satine hummed absurd little arpeggios into the sunlit air. The row of pill bottles stood sentinel on her vanity, next to her haphazardly color-coded collection of lipsticks. "One pill, two pill, red pill, blue pill..."
Pre-mug-of-hot-tea, her brain never worked quite right. What did she take today? It was Sunday, and Sunday meant the bronchodilators on top of everything else-except on the first Sunday of every month, because then she was supposed to take the injections-not more than once every month, because of the side effects-or was it twice? She tugged her hair loose from its messy bun. The results looked voluminous and wild, and she narrowed her eyes at her reflection in a predatory smile that softened and expanded into a genuine grin. So. Sunday. Time for meds.
Bronchodilators, inhaler (breathe in, spray, hold for eight, out,) anti-histamine spray (it always went down her throat,) decongestants (the tiniest pills in her collection, and the most prone to clumping; she always had to turn the bottle upside down and shake it to get them out,) the new experimental trial drug with the name she couldn't pronounce, and the standard antibiotics regimen. With businesslike efficiency she detached and refastened bottle tops, watching each pill down with a swig of cold water.
Across the room, blankets shifted.
Satine snapped the last cap closed and replaced the vial within its row. Now she could slide back into bed with the source of that noise- the still-shirtless, adorably tousle-haired, and half-asleep, (but still able to smile at her, whisper, "Good morning, Satine," and kiss her cheek) source. It was a minor, albeit distinct perk that said source of noise conveniently happened to share her views on early-morning sex- i.e., that it was a Very Good Thing.
A spasm of pain gripped Satine's chest, forcing her to clutch cables edge for support. No, no, no, she thought grimly. It is a Sunday morning, Christian is practically naked, and I am not spending the rest of the day in the hospital. Quickly, quietly, she slid the top drawer open. The plastic bottle lay hidden behind a pot of long-unused liquid eyeliner. She picked it up. In the mirror, her reflection ran a finger along the childproof cap's edge.
Satine had "borrowed" the painkillers from Marie after the aging costumer's most recent hip surgery. Secretly, she suspected that Marie had noticed the theft, but had allowed Satine to stroll from the dressing room with the vial in her Prada bag anyway.
"Get two film nerds in a room," Henri, the set designer, had mused earlier that day, his still-dry paintbrush whipping a figure-eight in the air, "and they'll talk about Satine."
The show had to go on, after all. And who cared about a little thing like drug-resistant respiratory infections when the darling of indie French film had agreed to help save your charmingly quirky off-Broadway playhouse?
Christian murmured something in his sleep. She envisioned the exact contours of his body against the sheets, and her fingers tightened around the bottle.
Give me one more day with him. Whatever it costs, I'll give up.
Let me shine as radiant as a crystal chandelier. When I shatter, I won't be surprised.
"Satine?"
Before she could lose her nerve, Satine brought her hand to her mouth and swallowed the pills. They left a sour, almost chalky taste under her tongue. "Coming," she sang, twirling across the room and leaping into the bed to kiss Christian's nose. "Morning, dear. How'd you sleep?"
From under quizzical-looking eyebrows, his intent gaze roved over her face.
"What?"
"Are you all right? You look-" he studied her, searching for words- "discombobulated. Upset."
"I'm fine," Satine lied, her smile radiant. "Let's make love."