Mitzi had called with an audition for that afternoon. I told her about my black eye. “Perfect,” she said, not missing a beat. “It’s a commercial for the fight against domestic violence. Just try to look abused.” “I am abused! Sherilyn Carp swung at me with a Kenneth Cole bag.” “Which one?” “Are you saying I am two-faced?” “I mean the bag.” “Mitzi! I didn’t notice which edition! I have a black eye!” The audition was the usual, the account executives grouped with the casting director, who today was Ramona. The usual handshakes, glance at the resumé and the photo, the obligatory videotaping. More handshakes, and goodbye. Ramona stopped me at the door, discreetly, her face a little concerned. Oh, dear. She’s going to ask me about the black eye. I don’t want to talk about it. “Lu .
