She glanced at her co-star, Marcus, who was leaning against a gear crate. He was sixty, silver-haired, and had never been called a "comeback." He caught her eye and winked. "Ready to remind them who owns the room?"
"I never forgot, Marcus," she smiled. "I just waited for them to catch up."
Evelyn remembered the years of being the "ingenue"—the girl in the sundress, the girl waiting for the phone to ring, the girl whose value was measured in the tautness of her jawline. Then came the "Invisible Decade," those years in her forties where the scripts transitioned abruptly from lead roles to "concerned mother" or "judgmental aunt," often with half the dialogue and none of the soul.
