Brad Pitt stepped out of the 300 square-foot room that was constructed of pink and yellow crystal granite rocks jutting out from the sides, the flooring made of one large piece of blue slate. The room had four shower heads, and was a work in progress in Brad's Santa Barbara house perched on an ocean-front hill north of the city. The house was small, and Brad used it to hide out and read screenplays. He found that getting out of Los Angeles and away from the hub bub of the entertainment business was essential for him to analyze scripts. His agent, of course, winnowed down the number of submissions received, maybe a few hundred a month, to maybe a dozen scripts. But still, a dozen screenplays was over a thousand pages of reading, and Brad Pitt needed the isolation of his little house north of Santa Barbara.
The large window in the very large bathroom that included the very very large shower faced the Pacific Ocean. The window was irregular, sort of like a contorted porthole, and the glass was hand-cut to fit the unusual opening formed by the same pink and yellow granite that walled the shower Brad just stepped out of. It was not even 7:00 AM, and the morning light turned the quiet Pacific water into a deep blue. There were a few fishing boats with their long stationary angled-up rods on the water, one motor yacht, maybe 90 feet in length, and some early morning joggers on the thin beach below.
Brad grabbed a white towel and started to dry himself when he caught his image in the full-length mirror on the wall. Many assume that Brad Pitt was like most male movie stars: short. But Brad Pitt was not short. He was a tad over six feet, and this came as a surprise to people when they first met him. He was tall and lean and muscular. Not too muscular, just right, thought Brad Pitt as he examined his naked body in the full-length mirror. Damn, he looked good. And at his age; over forty years. It was like time had stopped. He worked hard at his body, but he played hard too, which made him work even harder. But all this hard work and hard play paid off with big paychecks and a nearly perfect body.
Brad thought 'nearly' perfect, but he really could not find a single flaw, not one thing wrong with his body. So he placed 'nearly' in front of 'perfect' as a tip of his hat to humility. His humility, Brad thought, was all part of his perfection.
That was the problem with women. Women always had imperfections. And even when Brad couldn't necessarily articulate what the imperfections were, they were there, in plain site. His ex-wife, Jennifer Aniston, was imperfect in so many ways, but at the moment he couldn't think of what they were. Actually, Brad Pitt was missing Jennifer, and the news of her relationship with Vince Vaughn made Brad miss Jennifer that much more. Jennifer was perfectly — perfectly—? Perfectly plain. That was her imperfection.
But perfectly plain at the moment was something Brad wanted. He was exhausted from the African trip, the whole baby thing was like this weird dream. Spending a month on the West African coast with the woman everyone thought was the sexiest and most beautiful woman on the planet Earth was one long whacked-out experience. In fact, he had started to grow tired of the whirl of intensity that surrounded Angelina Jolie, and how the African birth circus was orchestrated, orchestrated entirely by Angelina even though she made Brad feel that he was totally involved. Yeah right.
But he wasn't involved. But he didn’t know it until he was stuck in Africa. And of course, once there, he had to stay. The woman he got pregnant was giving birth. he had to stay. If he had left, it would have stained his reputation. A small one, he figured, but still a stain.
Africa was too surreal to even be remotely real. Jennifer was real. Jennifer was so real, that Brad hungered to hold her hands and give her a hug. With Angelina, Brad always felt that the physical contact was staged for and by some master director inside Angelina's brain. Brad felt that there was someone else in the room when Brad and Angelina made love. When Brad told an old friend these thoughts, his friend told Brad that it was God in the room: "Angelina was made by God, and so God wants to see his creations in action," Brad's friend said.
Brad finished toweling himself down and stood straight in front of the mirror. He imagined Jennifer with him, standing next to his naked body, Jennifer wearing a sun dress with her perfect legs, her feet bare, her arms crossed in front of her not so large but not so small breasts, her beautiful hands, and fingers wrapped around her biceps. And Jennifer's hair; Brad imagined Jennifer's hair a mess, like they had just made love and Jenn tossed the sun dress on fast and they were going to start their day together.
Brad blinked and Jennifer disappeared. He was alone. With his perfect body and over a thousand pages to read.