I never planned to fall in love with Faye Dunaway. Hell, I’d never admitted to a high school crush of any kind – on anyone! I’d always thought how stupid, when friends admitted to lusting over film stars and musicians. Not even lusting, even if they were just in awe, I’d mock and laugh. Crucify
But now I felt an anxiousness about this feeling. This Falling. I couldn’t let anyone know. Not me. The one – formerly – so keen to tease others similarly afflicted. How could I let anyone know this? I couldn’t tell. Anyone. Not at all. Sadly, of course I couldn’t tell her…Faye Dunaway – I mean, physically, literally, I could not communicate with her. Anyway, say I could tell her, like hypothetically, if I was able to contact her, and I did, what would I say? How could I say it? “I Love You”. Doubt it. Not out like that. Just “I love you”. She’d want to know how and why, and most likely who? Like who the hell are you! That kind of who. And sadly, to her – as if she’d ever know – I was exactly that kind of who. That who the hell are you who. I was nobody. I was a nobody! (Am a nobody?) Nobody to her. Nobody for her.
But oh, those cheekbones. Legs – glorious legs. Those eyes. Those eyes. Kim Carnes was singing about those eyes. She had to be actually be singing about those eyes. My god, she had to. Those eyes. Bette Davis, Ava Gardner, Monroe and Marlene Deitrich. None of them came close to Faye. I’d’ve done away with all of them. Haha, Dunaway. Anyway, none of them came close to Faye. No way.
And so for two hours, once a week, as I rent her entire back catalogue, to watch then re-watch, over and over, I don’t need to tell anyone about this. Yes, success. This is how I’ll play it. This is how I’ll live. Watching a Faye Dunaway movie once a week, every week, same time – it’s a date. And by doing that, I’m confident in my knowledge that in some way I’m telling Faye. Ms Dunaway. I’m telling Ms Faye Dunaway how much I care. I’m doing that which I don’t dare tell anyone else. I’m having my own private love affair. Video postcard from me to her. Signed, wish you were here Faye Dunaway. And I know, in a way – which isn’t nearly as absurd as anyone else would think – that she is there. And that finally I am here. And I know she’d understand.