So I’m imagining Brad and Angelina in bed. At first I’m distracted by what color duvet they have and the quality of the lighting. I quickly decide on royal blue and the soft glow of one lamp. The lamp is on because the last time Brad climbed out of bed in the middle of the night he stubbed his toe on the bedpost. While he was hopping around, clutching the wounded (though still beautiful) toe, muttering expletives under his breath, Angie (I’m not too formal in these fantasies) pretends to be asleep. Her long, lustrous hair drapes across her face so as not to reveal her grin, which she presses into her pillow, stifling a giggle Brad mistakes for mutterings of a dream.
So anyway, they’re in bed. Brad is exhausted from a busy day of signing autographs, dodging the paparazzi, carrying Zahara around (I swear, they never let that girl walk!) and his late phone call to George Clooney where they hashed out the scenario of their next film—one that will include the cast of the Ocean’s movies (minus the old farts) plus Ashton Kutcher, Jake Gyllenhaal, and Cameron Diaz (well, let’s face it, she’s hot). Angie takes up most of the bed with her sprawling hair and protruding belly which is currently incubating two (yes, by golly, count them) two of Brad’s babies. She turns on her left side and then slowly maneuvers herself back to her right side.
Just when Brad starts to drift, contriving the dialogue for a scene with himself and George in a hot-tub, she turns over again, this time with an exasperated huff. Brad freezes, praying his stillness will indicate sleep. If she senses any hint of consciousness, she may ask for another massage. Brad likes the idea of massaging Angie as much as the next guy, but he desperately needs some shut-eye.
Then Shiloh starts to cry. Brad freezes in his mummy-like pose, for a moment clasping to the desperate belief that if he just waits a moment, his little cherub will settle herself into a glorious sleep. But this is not to be for Brad. Angie’s long arm swings around heavily, thumping against his chest. “Yrfrumphagthuh” she mumbles in her dreary state. She knows she holds all the cards—heavy with two, yes again count them, two of Brad’s babies, she holds the golden ticket. “Yep, I got it,” Brad says heroically. Though inside he is crying, “Fuck! Why did we get rid of the night-time nanny?”
He rubs his eyes and shuffles along the carpet (lush, beige carpet, I imagine) this time carefully avoiding the bedpost (which he can now see due to the soft lighting). He reaches the door, which actually takes a while because their bedroom is, like, huge. Brad is wearing a white t-shirt that is just a little too tight for him, and pajama bottoms that nicely hang on his bottom. Just as he opens the door, Shiloh’s crying ceases. He teeters there unsteadily, holding his breath, waiting for the wails to rise up again. They do not.
After a moment in the dark stillness, Brad hears his large, gorgeous, grumpy partner (yes, partner, not wife, it’s their statement on the whole gay-marriage issue. You go, Brangelina!) harrumph again. The bed creaks as, he imagines, she turns over uncomfortably once again. Brad decides to go down to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Perhaps he can begin piecing together the opening scene of the film—something that involves Ashton and Matt on motorcycles …
But I don’t follow Brad down to the kitchen. My fantasy ends there, with the lovely, tired man standing alone in the hallway. I smile and pull my covers up around me, drifting off to a contented sleep with dreams of royal blue duvets and lush carpets.