My grandmother used to get mad at me for watching too much E Entertainment Television. Too much E True Hollywood Story for a twelve year old. I used to sit on her bed with the huge wooden headboard with burnt orange velvet that had buttons like eyes. The best face I saw was Ramón Novarro’s. I listened to his story as I sewed a dress from puffy brown fabric. I traced the pattern on the bedroom carpet that smelled clean, but still spotted from cola in the 80s.

By the time the program was finished, the sun was paling out of the window behind the drapes. I held the dress up to my shoulders to see where the hem of it would fall. Just above my knees, perfect. I kept thinking about Ramón’s face. Wondering what color it really was because I could only see him in black and white on the TV. Mounted on the wall, it was my little theater. I began to make up a story about Ramón. My new dress on my body haphazardly.

Of all the figures in the wax museum, Ramón is the loneliest. I striped my eyelids in jewel tones, eel green, and smoked a candy cigarette to play the part even more. He is pale faced, like a Spaniard, and I am dark skinned, but we are friends, still.

I probe the wax skin now, make it glow pink and warm under the fluorescent light. I have a tequila throat, coughing dust that blows through casino air. My friend. He opens his mouth, an O, handsome, blinks twice, to let me know he remembers me still.