Extras on Valentine’s Day.

Fiction.

Tuesday. My phone screams bloody murder to announce the arrival of seven o clock on this early-spring-has-sprung Valentine’s day. The third V-day I’ve spent alone in a row. I grumpily tell my phone to cool its little electronic horses. As I wrap up my groggy negotiation with the sleep-interruptor, a new noise. A notification. A lucky break. A text from the friend who is at least 80% to blame for the hang-over I’m currently indulging.

“If you can dress as if for a date and be here in 30 minutes, we need some extras for this indie film we’re shooting.”

“Date,” I giggle to myself as I haul myself out of bed at 7:03. I spot myself in the mirror. I need a shave. I need three more hours of sleep. I need to hit the gym at some point this millennium, maybe. But also, I could be charming, I guess. I squint at the mirror. I’m teleported to my 6-year-old self, and I see my dad’s outline reflected back at me. Jesus, we look so much alike.

I grab my nice shoes. Trousers. I find a shirt. A silk scarf — sure, this is California, but a bit of je-ne-sais-quoi never harmed, I figured. Incorrectly, it turns out. I step out of my car at the location, and my friend just laughs.

“Take this,” he says, shoving a paper cup of profoundly disgusting coffee into my hands. “And lose this,” he guffaws, flicking my scarf. “This ain’t Paris, son,” he summarizes, as he storms off. Peter, on a film set, is 99% efficiency and 1% snark. I shrug and toss my scarf into the passenger…