She stood watching the screen motionless no real emotion rising one way or another. Why wasn’t she surprised? The others stood waiting. They knew they’d found the thing that would push her to a breaking point, they would get their sick satisfaction seeing her cringe and burst out excuses and condemnations. Unsatisfied and unhappy lot, they had to get theirs somewhere. Finally one spoke, “You call that acting…”. “I wasn’t acting; he’s my husband.” She remembered the producer’s house, all the nights they’d been invited there by the bartender, most of those nights the producer wasn’t home. He’d been filming them, her husband that is, in their favorite bedroom. She was doing what he wanted, making him happy, being herself even though some of it she didn’t like but you were supposed to please your husband, and in turn he should please you, you were supposed to be able to let him see the worst things and it would all be ok because you knew his too. What she didn’t know! “Look how unhappy I was” she was surprised to see the story her eyes told. “No wonder people take my writing the way they do. I’m very obviously there. This is me… and… doesn’t it make sense why everyone thinks I’m an actress.”
The room had become quiet. Did they realize what had happened? Maybe. She didn’t know she was being filmed, well, had been. Was there any victory here? Maybe if he was making money. “Wow, how lovely I was then, sexy, and flexible” she spoke softly, absentmindedly. She rallied, “Well, I never signed a release. Someone owes me a salary, a pretty hefty one.” She turned toward the host of the event. Everyone was hanging their heads in shame.
“Where did you get this?”