Kissing Brendan Callahan by Susan Amesse

month before that,” says Margo.
    â€œThe creative process cannot be put on a time schedule,” says Antonia. “The muse works in strange ways. Only those blessed with the gift could possibly understand the process.” She looks directly at me. Is it because she thinks I’m also blessed with the gift?
    â€œI’m really getting agitated,” says Roland, tossing back his head. “You promised me a great love story. I spoke to Bronson today. He’s considering starring in it, but he wants details.”
    â€œJust let us take a peek at the script,” says Margo, coaxingly.
    â€œImpossible,” says Antonia, giving me a pleading look.
    â€œUm,” I say. “As Antonia’s personal assistant, I need her to put all her energy into the contest.”
    Roland huffs and struts over to Charlene. “Can’t you do something to push this along? You’re her agent.”
    â€œI’ve done my best. This is very hard on me, too.” Charlene huffs and, with a quick turn, leaves the room. A moment of chilled silence follows, broken only by Ophelia bumping into the coffee table, still pursuing the fly. Roland paces around the room, mumbling about deadlines, disrespectful writers, and contracts. A cell phone rings and Margo whips one out of her purse and takes the call. Antonia rubs her temples.
    Brendan leans in to me. “This is one dead party.”
    â€œThat’s because it’s a gathering,” I whisper.
    â€œHey,” he says out loud. “Why did the turtle cross the road? To get to the Shell station!”
    No one, besides Brendan, laughs.
    â€œHow about this one,” he says. “Did you hear about the shoe factory that burned down? Two hundred soles were lost.” When no one laughs this time, Brendan slaps the table. “Now I know that’s funny.”
    â€œHave a piece of cake,” says Antonia.
    â€œI don’t want a piece of cake,” he says. “I’m a comedian and you’re supposed to laugh.”
    â€œI understand.” She hands him a cookie. He takes it.
    Margo waves to Roland. “Bronson wants to talk to you.”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to tell him?”
    Margo cups her hand over the receiver. “Ask him for a little patience,” she whispers. Roland grabs the phone and walks into the living room with it. He talks softly so I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I wonder if he’s talking to Bronson McGee, the top-box office movie star? I loved him in The Sinking of the Andrea Doria.
    Antonia smiles at me as she nervously plays with an earring.
    Roland walks back, his phone call over. He leans over Antonia. “I’ll give you one more week, and then I want to see the script. Remember, you signed a contract. If you don’t produce a script, this will end up in court.”
    â€œI’ll have it in a week,” says Antonia.
    â€œMargo,” says Roland, snapping his fingers. “Let’s move. We can still catch the red-eye to LA.”
    â€œI’m right behind you,” she says.
    As they gather their things, Antonia smiles and waves to them. “Ta, ta,” she says. “Talk to you in a week.”
    I follow Roland to the door. “I was just curious,” I say. “Was that the Bronson McGee you were talking to?”
    â€œIs there another?” he says in a sarcastic tone.
    â€œAsk him what kind of coffee they served on the Andrea Doria, ” says Brendan. “Sanka.” He laughs.
    â€œShhhh,” I tell him. Margo and Roland leave. Antonia sighs and leans back in her chair.
    â€œThis is the worst audience I’ve ever met,” says Brendan. “Or was it me?” Brendan bites his lip.
    â€œYou’re fine,” I say. Antonia looks even sadder than Brendan. “Is there anything I can do to help?” I move closer. I’m curious if she has worked on the script at all. Maybe I could help her finish it.