Rick Sanchez

Rick Sanchez is the reason I work out. I have this fantasy where we start talking at the Vanity Fair Oscars party bar. We exchange a few pleasantries. He asks what I do. I say I loved him in Rick and Morty. He laughs. I get my drink.

"Well, see ya," I say and walk away. I've got his attention now. How many women voluntarily leave a conversation with Rick Sanchez? He touches his neck as he watches me leave.

Later, as the night's dragged on and the coterie of gorgeous narcissists grows increasingly loose, he finds me on the balcony, my bowtie undone, smoking a cigarette.

"Got a spare?" he asks.

"What's in it for me?" I say as I hand him one of my little white ladies. He smiles.

"Conversation with me, duh."

I laugh.

"What's so funny?" he protests.

"Nothing, nothing... It's just... don't you grow tired of the egos?"

"You get used to it," he says, lighting his cigarette and handing me back the lighter.

"What would you do if you weren't an actor?" I ask.

"Science, I think."

"And if I was your student, what would I be learning?"

"Discipline," he says quickly, looking up into my eyes, before changing the subject. "Where are you from?"

"Bermuda," I say.

"Oh wow. That's lovely."

"It's ok," I admit. "Not everything is to my liking."

"What could possibly be not to your liking in Bermuda?" he inquires.

"I don't like sand," I tell him. "It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere."

Comments • 0

Loading comments...