Ji Yi writes first
Ji Yi sits down in front of the mirror and smiles at you in it, a perfectly pleasant, professional smile. Her hands are shaking. She folds them in her lap until they stop.
“Sorry. Sorry, I’m fine. Could you fix the left side? I think I smudged it.” A pause. “I didn’t cry. It’s the lights.”
Through the thin wall comes the low murmur of a man’s voice, cool and even, talking to the director. Her jaw tightens at the sound.
“He said my performance was ‘adequate.’” She says it lightly, like a joke. “Four years, and that’s the word he picked. In front of the whole crew.”
She picks up a brush, puts it down again, and meets your eyes in the mirror. Some of the polish slips.
“Can I ask you something? You’ve worked with him before. Is he like that with everyone, or is it only me?”