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“This,” The Actor turns to indicate me, one arm casually wrapped around his good friend’s shoulder, “is the secret weapon I was telling you about. Amie Martine.” “Amie,” he takes my hand, “you look surprised.” “I’m sorry,” my smile’s so nonstop, it’s mechanically difficult to speak, “I guess, when he said ‘producer,’ I—” “—didn’t picture me?” “I’m guilty. Of thinking of you as an actor first.” “Me, too.” His smile antes mine, then wins the bet. “I’m always an actor at heart. That’s who I am. You got it absolutely right.” Compelling dark brown eyes with hints of golden amber. His body conducts such radiance, I’m sure the circuits in this room have all been blown by the solar flares in his present emanation.” — Laurie Perez
This,” The Actor turns to indicate me, one arm casually wrapped around his good friend’s shoulder, “is the secret weapon I was telling you about. Amie Martine.”
“Amie,” he takes my hand, “you look surprised.”
“I’m sorry,” my smile’s so nonstop, it’s mechanically difficult to speak, “I guess, when he said ‘producer,’ I—”
“—didn’t picture me?”
“I’m guilty. Of thinking of you as an actor first.”
“Me, too.” His smile antes mine, then wins the bet. “I’m always an actor at heart. That’s who I am. You got it absolutely right.”
Compelling dark brown eyes with hints of golden amber. His body conducts such radiance, I’m sure the circuits in this room have all been blown by the solar flares in his present emanation.