Elena had been the ingenue. The heartbreaking wife. The sexy neighbor. Then, at forty, the mother of the ingenue. Then, the sexy neighbor to the father . Then, the roles thinned like a receding hairline: the stern judge on a legal drama, the cancer patient in a weepy indie, the voice of a cartoon villainess.

Mira called “Cut.”

“Mature women,” the director had said in their Zoom call, his face lit from below like a kindergartner telling a scary story, “they have texture . Don’t you think?”

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