text: Serafina Simon. Her name was on everyone’s lips. There wasn’t a mind left in America that could go very long without thinking of her. Her tall, curvaceous frame--the mile-long legs, the barely-there waist, the well-endowed chest pushed practically up to her chin. Her wardrobe, all slinky black silk and clingy black velvet, supplemented just enough with glittering diamonds. The matte dark red lips cocked into that bemused, tantalizing half-smile. The delicate beringed hands that the world longed to kiss, to hold, to marvel at the slenderness of...if Serafina would let them, of course. It was known all too well that she wouldn’t. She’d pull away with a gesture that was classy and feminine, yet completely and utterly dismissive. ‘Down, boy’, she’d say in that sultry voice that had all the dark smoothness of her heralded fashion taste. That was the idea of Serafina, and it was an idea the public adored. In fact, they adored it so much, they’d followed her home from her latest red carpet event, hounding her as they always had and would. A small army of press photographers crouched outside the gate to Serafina’s tasteful white mansion, their cameras poised and ready to fire. The cameras flashed, flashed, flashed as her limo glided to a subtle halt. The flashing intensified as the chauffeur rushed out and briskly opened the door. Serafina didn’t open doors, of course, Doors opened for her. “Serafina! Serafina, Serafina!” the blended voice of the countless photographers shouted. It was Serafina, alright. She seemed to tower over them all, like a reminder of just how above them she was. Her black silk gown clung to her voluptuous body for dear life, exposing just enough of her impressive bust to leave her adoring public drooling and howling without even approaching the borders of vulgarity. A high slit up the leg showed off the length and toning of the one Serafina so expertly, so casually stuck out, posing with the practice and poise only a professional could have. Every few well-timed moments, she’d adjust her grip and the positioning of the white fur wrap around her lean shoulders. Only Serafina Simon could so subtly change the entire look of an outfit without really changing anything at all. The trigger-happy press was loving it. As far as they could tell from that signature half-smile of hers, Serafina was loving it, too. Which, of course, meant it was time for the interrogation to began. “Serafina! Do you have any comments on your latest film?” one shouted. Serafina did not. Of course she did not. Serafina Simon didn’t disclose the film industry’s secrets. She was a real lady. “Serafina! Are you currently in a romantic relationship with KICKASS?” another chimed in. KICKASS, a true modern rapper, had been her date that oh-so-relevant evening. He, so heavily tattooed and so proud of his gangbanger past, had contrasted her in a way that was shocking and almost comical. Side by side, they looked as though a recently paroled drug dealer had time traveled to meet a Golden Age starlet. And yet...it had seemed perfectly right. The idea of Serafina could complement any man. “Serafina! Why did you choose KICKASS to be your date tonight?” another questioned. What a riveting question, Serafina thought. A less sophisticated individual might have sarcastically pointed out some obvious ones: She was attracted to him, she enjoyed his company, she knew it would make the headlines, she wanted to see them react like this...but Serafina would do no such thing. Serafina didn’t do sarcasm, and Serafina was sophistication in its purest form. “Serafina! What are your thoughts on the organization of tonight’s events?” yet another added on. ‘Tonight’s event’ had been just like all the others. Serafina had arrived, posed, networked with every fellow celebrity she could tolerate, and done her best to exit with minimal hindrance from the press. But she couldn’t say that, of course. The idea of Serafina having a repetitive life or flat, spiteful thoughts was unfeasible. Serafina lived a vibrant, fascinating, positively bustling life that her countless admirers could only imagine and long for. She thought in flowing, colorful rolls of high-quality silk and bursts of thorny dark red roses. And she knew when to keep her red-lipsticked mouth shut. “Serafina! What did you think of your fellow guests?” another photographer asked for the sake of the curious world. Serafina thought plenty about them. She could have told the photographer which actresses were vapid and which ones were great conversation partners, which powerful men were witty and which were downright boorish. She could have whipped out an extensive list of singers who weren’t half as charming as their lyrics...and she could have talked for hours about how KICKASS’s smile--his real smile, not the one he’d donned for these very vultures--made her weak at the knees, about how safe she’d felt in his tattooed arms, and how when she looked in his pale, pale green eyes, everything was alright in the world. But Serafina knew better. Serafina always knew better. The press, and the world they represented, didn’t want to hear about any of that. They didn’t really want to hear anything at all. They wanted to see. The ability to look at her and put their own words in her mouth was far more enjoyable than listening to anything she had to say. Serafina had learned that rather quickly. You could call her ‘clever’, ‘witty’, or ‘sly’, but Serafina Simon was downright intelligent. “Serafina! Serafina, Serafina, Serafina! Serafina!” the press squabbled, devolving abruptly to their true, frenzied state. Serafina held back a posh sigh. She’d given these hounds of hell more than enough to work with. She strutted to her mansion’s opulent main entrance with the seductive walking stride of that immortal screen siren, that unforgettable and beguiling Serafina. “Serafina! Serafina! SERAFINA!” the press howled after her. The rapid-fire camera attack didn’t slow. “Goodbye and goodnight, darlings,” Serafina called, her ever-alluring voice completely level. She opened the French doors with a darling flourish, swiftly closing them behind her with one smooth, practiced motion. The mansion’s inside was just like its outside, all tasteful decor and subtle but absolute luxury. Fresh cut flowers and natural light seemed to dominate every square inch, and the mansion had plenty of those to offer. Its owner strutted up the curving staircase with the same femme fatale stride she’d entered with. She kept it up as she strode through her well-decorated bedroom, and she entered her closet as flamboyantly as she’d entered her home. Said closet was exactly what one would have expected from Serafina Simon; all white marble, gold, and femininity. But more importantly, there were no windows. Nowhere for the insatiable press to see in. Serafina did one last look around the room, as though to make absolutely sure there were no particularly dedicated photographers lurking in it. Then, she took a deep breath. The first thing she did was kick off the heels. She didn’t need to be a towering six footer anymore; 5’7 was more than tall enough for the privacy of her home. The dress was the next thing to go, and Serafina would have shamelessly told the depraved press that her beauty in it was nothing compared to her relief out of it. But peeling off the shapewear and unhooking the pushup bra? That was where the fun really began. Serafina gasped for air and took her first full breaths of the evening. Of course, her joy wasn’t without its downsides. Her waist returned from an impossible twenty inches to a respectable twenty-four, and her chest, while still rather large, sat at a normal level instead of being forcibly raised to a sky-high one. Serafina couldn’t bring herself to mind. In its unguided form, her body was spectacular. But she knew by now that when there were cameras around, spectacular wouldn’t cut it. In the land of bright lights and brighter stars, it was perfect or nothing. She looked around the room once again, suddenly needing to remind herself that there were no cameras in here. Sure enough, there were no crouching photographers, no hovering drones, no tucked-away nanny cams. Serafina nodded vigorously, an odd sight. With the world watching, Serafina did nothing vigorously; her actions were completed gracefully and sensually. But here, with no one watching, she was allowed the rare luxury of being unable to help herself. No cameras, she reminded herself with each nod. No cameras, no cameras, no cameras, NO CAMERAS. On that optimistic note, she continued the long process of getting un-ready. The plain black g-string--Serafina Simon did not get panty lines--was next to go, and it certainly wasn’t missed. Serafina then walked over to one of her many drawers and pulled out a plain white wireless bra, a pair of plain white cotton briefs, and her ultimate guilty pleasure: a pair of sky-blue slipper socks with a pattern of cartoon dachshunds in hot dog buns and the meaningless caption, ‘Hang Loose, Buddy.’ She slipped them on with an eagerness she’d been trained not to show the public. Serafina Simon didn’t get eager, she got mildly interested in the most dignified way possible. But she certainly felt eager as she pulled on the other two items in the drawer, two items no one would ever associate with Serafina Simon. Serafina wore slinky dresses, ravishing gowns...but there she was in fleecy plaid pajama pants and an oversized KICKASS hoodie. She could only imagine the aneurysm the ever-loving public would have if they found out celebrities had their own celebrity crushes. Of course, they probably wouldn’t be surprised that Serafina Simon of all people had managed to get with hers. Of course, that news would get all its shock value back when the good citizens of the world realized KICKASS was Serafina’s type. Serafina savored that amusing thought as she took a seat at her vanity. She decided she could leave her hair as it was. It had been elaborately and painstakingly styled, of course, but considering it was down and free of pins, it wasn’t painful in any way. With that off the list, she reached for her makeup wipes. If there was one thing ingrained in the public eye about Serafina Simon, it was her face. Anyone who was anyone recognized those foxy eyes, those razor sharp cheekbones, that perfectly smooth skin, those dark red lips...and yet, they all came away with a few good swipes of a decent makeup remover. Her eyes were just eyes, with no bold dark outlines. Her cheekbones were still sharp and high, but she no longer had to worry about breaking a diamond on one. Her fabled glass skin had freckles, which were just about the last physical quality anyone would possibly connect to Seraphina Simon. And her lips were returned a subdued natural pink. Forget celebrities having crushes, the mere sight of Serafina Simon without her red lips would be enough to give any of her fans that aneurysm. But she knew the truth. It wasn’t Serafina Simon staring back at her at all. It was Ava McMurphy. Ava McMurphy, the girl from Illinois, who’d never in her wildest dreams thought she’d make it this far. The girl who loved wildflowers far more than roses, the girl who’d infinitely rather be at a NASCAR race than a cocktail party, the girl whose playlists consisted of a baffling mix of Metallica and Billy Joel, the girl who was obsessed with lattes in all of their various forms...the girl who swooned at the mere thought of a tall, heavily tattooed man with a face full of piercings, who just couldn’t seem to stay on the right side of the law. That, of course, was the biggest relief of all; the mere knowledge that she didn’t have to be Serafina Simon anymore. That Ava McMurphy would do just fine. Ava looked in the mirror and smiled her real smile. Unlike Serafina’s, Ava’s smile was unpolished and had no element of smugness or condescension. It was full-sized and genuine, especially right now. There was no better feeling than being herself again after Serafina had left for the night. BZZZT! Ava’s phone suddenly vibrated with a text. Her heart fluttered. Could it be who she hoped it was? She nervously checked, and sure enough, the notification was from none other than her lovely date, KICKASS. *Gonna pull up in two hours, ill sneak through the back door ;)* Ava giggled and immediately fired off a reply. *Can’t wait to see you, cutie!!!!! :))))))* Serafina never giggled. Serafina didn’t reply quickly; Serafina made everyone wait longingly for her. Serafina called no one ‘cutie’, and she certainly didn’t use childish things like exclamation points and smiley faces. And Serafina did not get excited over men. In fact, Serafina didn’t get excited at all. But Serafina had been put away until the next show, and Ava was very excited indeed.