No wax figure has ever seen a movie. Has ever complained about the exorbitant prices at the concession stand. Has ever eaten most of the popcorn during the previews. Their hands have never emerged from the warm paper bag, thin ribbons of melted wax joining their fingers to the buttered kernels. No wax figure has ever, as the lights played, said, “But that’s me. George, honey, that’s me!”, her buttery, soft hand coming to her cheek, thin crescents cracking across her face as her expression changes. George, the dummy, thinks she’s afraid, seeing her doppelgänger in a meet-cute. She is not afraid. Well. She is not only afraid. She is afraid and smitten and flustered and suddenly exists in a way she doesn’t recognize. But this scene has never played. No wax figure, not one, knows how famous their face is. They think it’s them we’ve come to see. They think to themselves as we take our selfies, “I don’t know what I did, but I’m so happy I did it. Isn’t it lovely to be beautiful?” All of Madame’s Tussauds wax figures think they’re beautiful. They’ll never know how familiar we find them. How common their faces are.

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William Hawkins has been published in Granta, ZZYZYVA and TriQuarterly, among others. Originally from Louisiana, he currently lives in Los Angeles where he is at work on a novel.