A True Story

Amsterdam and Octavian never blinked, as a rule.

Fifteen months of dual modeling jobs, gig after gig, exotic locale after exotic locale – all of that had knocked the blink right out of them. 

They were the best of their kind, naturally. Taut, well-moisturized skin stretched out over razor-sharp cheekbones. Lips pursed, never open. Both used left-hand parts, their shimmering hair tucked behind those shapely right ears. Serene and stunning. And besties. 

Rarely seen talking at a shoot, the only sounds they made were the occasional (and slight) grunts and sighs that meant, “Good morning,” “Let’s pose,” or, “This skim no-whip latte is filling.”

That day, however, was different. They had arrived at the shoot in total silence. 
J.Crew Fall ’07. Silence wasn’t unusual – these kids were quiet and removed (you could even go flat out and say “cold”) – but they wouldn’t even share a bottle of liquid concealer. 
Then, positioned in front of the cameras, Octavian’s hand lightly resting on Amsterdam’s knee, the tension was palpable.  Their eyes were watering.

“Amsterdam…” the art director tried, “Do you need a break? You’re sweating through the houndstooth.”

Octavian gave a low whistle. “Just tell them.”

Amsterdam shook his wee mane.
“I just…” he started, then delicately coughed. “I just need some Visine.”

Three hours passed. 
Vests gave way to sweaters, to trousers, to cravats. 

Finally, something cracked.

Octavian’s eyes slammed shut with a crash: “I’M BLIND!” he screeched, tearing at his face.  Amsterdam writhed in agony, then, “THE VISINE! DEAR GOD, THE VISINE!”
Both shocks of hair deflated with a disgusting puff to the left and their lips contorted grotesquely into stupid, common-people smiles.

They had passed it – their Prime – and promptly faded into obscurity.