TITLE: Boobs Over Hollywood
As the timer buzzed, Lena's fingers fell of the cello's B-Flat, resulting in painful howl from the instrument. She set it down carefully, then glanced down at her flannel Garfield-inspired PJ's and frog-shaped slippers and considered -- for about the buzzillionth time -- that this was not what she imagined the life of an aspiring cellist to be. She looked at the wall clock. 8:53. Running late. As usual. Time to forget Bach. Time to forget Beethoven. Time to forget Barber. Time to scurry off to work. Time to deal with boobs.
Winded and sweaty from her long trek from the peon parking lot, Lena flew into Building Three, the home of Tony Brewer's production company, Pilfered Projects Productions. The reception area was starkly modern. Black and glass and chrome with all the warmth and charm of a bus station urinal. She grimaced, as she always did, when she spotted the posters of Tony's many successful TV reality shows lining the walls: American Icon, Prancing with the Stars, The Incredible Marathon and Endurer: Topeka. Geez, she thought, if you're going to rip off other shows, couldn't the titles at least be original?
In her usual uncoordinated style, Lena skidded across the shiny, slippery marble floor toward the reception desk, her long arms and legs flailing in all directions. Bitsy, the gothic receptionist, was at her desk watching Lena's acrobatics through disapproving, uncharitable eyes.