The Producer's Proposal

Natasha

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Clara exclaims in her theatrical voice. She is consistently theatrical and over-the-top. I haven’t witnessed her normal behavior. I’m conversing with her over the phone.

She lives far away from me. Our long-distance friendship surpasses the age of typical local friendships.

“That's exactly what you heard,” I grumble. I’m already pissed; her exceptional voice is wreaking havoc on my brain cells.

It has been two days since a man has been constantly standing outside the college campus. I asked several girls about him, but they all claimed not to know of him either.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” She exclaims, her voice escalating. It irritates me when she raises her voice excitedly and loses her patience.

“Perhaps that man has fallen in love with you, and he’s following you?” she poses another foolish question. It’s truly getting on my nerves. I slam the table I’m working on, causing a loud bang.

Clara falls silent immediately upon hearing the noise, not even her breath making a sound.

I exhale deeply. “Clara, I’ll call you later,” I say, and abruptly end the call.

I’m not sure who he is, or why he is following me. Should I confront him directly or not? I don’t even want to recollect the memories of what happened in those two days.

Two days earlier :

I wake immediately as the alarm snoozes. The ringtone is an incredible headache, but I can’t change it because my mother likes it. Her choices are usually fine, although her taste is somewhat weird. I’ll change it later.

Without informing her.

I enter the kitchen and roll my eyes. I forgot to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen last night. I spent the entire night revisiting my writing proposal, which has become quite familiar to me. Today is the day of my interview for the story I wrote two years ago.

I’m running out of time to wash the dishes and clean the apartment. Maybe I should leave. I take a bath, using the lavender-scented shampoo that my mother gifted me last month. Since my hair is short, I don’t need to do much with it. I open my wardrobe and let out a sigh of disappointment.

It’s in a shittier condition than the kitchen.

However, there’s no time to fix it now. I take out my white blouse and brown trousers that I bought a year ago. There’s a stain on the right sleeve from a dinner I had with Clara last time, that’s why I stopped wearing it. To hide the stain, I must choose something else to wear, so I also grab my brown trench coat.

It matches well with my trousers.

I can’t afford to be late. I still have some time, so I'll order some coffee from the nearby shop. I sit in my car, realizing that I forgot to wash it as well. I’m being quite a dumb-ass today.

I drive a short distance to the coffee shop and order my favorite one.

I pull the brakes at a red light as I reach the highway. I let out another sigh, becoming more frustrated.

“Why is New York always flooded with this shitty traffic?” An unexpected man remarks. His car is beside mine. His appearance is so ugly. His bald head makes him look uglier.

Today is my final interview. If I don’t succeed, I won’t have another opportunity to apply. Mummy has already warned me that if I am not accepted this time, I will have to wait until I complete my post-graduation before trying again.

I’m running late now. My future is hanging in the balance at this fucked traffic signal.

I hold my coffee cup in my hands; the hazelnut flavor tastes literally better than my life. Sipping from the straw, I glance towards the right window, to steal a glimpse of the traffic.

Just a few car lengths away, there are two men talking with each other. They seem busy in conversation, smiling at each other and maintaining eye contact. I narrow my eyes to observe them, scanning them from head to toe.

The man in front appears slightly older than me, with highly expressive and dramatic features. His hair is straight, styled with gel, and barely an inch long.

The aura of an older man is distinct. My lips twitches into a smug.

At least he’s not cheap. I roll my eyes as the thought comes into my mind.

He’s dressed in a white tee and blue denim, or so it seems, because I can’t see what he’s wearing underneath.

His eyebrows are thick, and he has a light, well-maintained beard and a sharp nose. His jawline could cut through anyone’s heart effortlessly. Broad shoulders, a toned chest, big pecs, and a well-built physique.

It’s proof that he hits the gym every day.

He looks exactly like my favorite book character. A perfect older Grey Man with rich daddy vibes. He will suit the character very well in my ongoing project.

“Fuck,” I spit the coffee out of my mouth. While describing him, I almost forgot that I had been constantly staring at him with my narrowed eyes. It wasn’t until he turned his gaze towards me that I realized my actions. I stop sipping my coffee and slowly raise the window glass.

Even with the window closed, he’s continuously trying to peek through the glass. I pray for the traffic signal to turn green soon. I tilt my head a little, attempting to steal another glance at him. His gaze is fixed on my car.

Hopefully, the signal changes to the green one. I shift gears and start driving. I glance at the side mirror, to ensure that he isn’t following me. And indeed, he isn’t.

Surely, he wouldn’t be following me just because I was looking at him.

It’s not a crime to observe someone. If continuously looking at someone were a crime, countless boys would be in jail by now. I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to calm my thoughts.

𖥸

I stop my car in front of the building, its exterior shining in the sunlight. I park the car. I am standing in front of the studio.

Is it a studio or a Skyscraper?

The name is written in bold words, Royal Crest Studio.

I enter the reception area. “Studio is brighter than my future,” I mumble.

“Miss Natasha Bennett,” someone calls my name before I sit on the couch. I get my ass up in the middle of the air and follow her inside. In front of the entry door, a bald man is sitting on a rolling chair, facing the wall, like a villain in a movie.

He turns towards me in a dramatic manner, which almost makes me burst into laughter, but I manage to control myself. His entire face is covered in a thick beard and mustache, hiding his lips.

He gestures for me to sit down, and finally, I can put my ass in peace.

He asks for the proposal as I take a seat. I hand it over to him, and without making any delay, he proceeds to open the file, carefully reading every single word of the story.

Anxiety runs through my spine, causing me to curl my toes. It’s not my first time in this situation, but it is my last.

Fifteen minutes pass by, and still, he hasn’t spoken a single word in response.

The way he’s glaring at the proposal gives me the slight feeling that he will reject me, just like the others did. Please, God, don’t let this shit happen. I’ve waited two years to write this piece, and nearly fifteen companies have rejected me in the past three months.

It’s my final attempt to sell my story, my last chance. If they reject me, I won’t have the hope or the courage to approach another agent or studio manager. I can’t bear the thought of reapplying without informing my mother.

I think I should just give up and help my mother run the cafe. She has been asking for my assistance. Last night, she called me, but I was too busy with my work to mention that I was working on another story. If I were to reveal this to her, she would insist on my return.

She would force me into taking charge of her cafe shop. In reality, it was she who encouraged me to continue writing. However, as time went on, she grew frustrated.

When Dad passed away, she was shattered into pieces. After his death, she hardly spoke to me. I was the only one there for her. Despite her limited financial means, she supported me through college and university, struggling to pay my fees.

I have made up my mind that if my proposal is rejected this time, I will stop applying. After completing my graduation, I’ll return to my hometown and manage her cafe.

I find myself curling my toes anxiously, a habit he had noticed earlier. With each word he reads from my proposal, my breathing is getting heavier.

Finally, he closes the file and gazes directly at me. Fear in my eyes is obvious, something that anyone could easily catch. At that same moment, I’m curling my toes.

“I apologize, Miss Bennett, but — we can’t accept your proposal. The story is good, but the budget is not manageable. You should try somewhere else.” He utters in a hoarse voice, echoing the same words I’ve been hearing for the past three months.

Upon hearing his statement, I can no longer manage to sit in here. I swiftly grab the proposal file from the table to make my way outside. It was my final chance, and once again, I have failed. Now, it seems the path with my mother is the only option left. I will complete my post-graduation and take over her business.

Stepping out of the studio, I reach the parking area.

“Fuck. I failed again. How could you do this to me, God?” I mutter under my breath, unable to spit my frustration loudly. I’m dying to scream and shout, to release my anger on that bald man, but I can’t. I feel lost, and I don’t know what to do next.

In a burden of frustration, I kick the car parked in front of me, leaving a mark on its surface. I quickly put the keys in my car door and throw the damned proposal in the back seat. Hoping no one will notice the scratch I made.