The Best Actor in the Vase of Meiyu

Chapter 2034 Slapping Myself
tired.

That was Anson's only feeling.

After the Oscars, a deep weariness overwhelmed him, leaving him physically and mentally exhausted. Anson immediately fell ill with a high fever of 39 degrees Celsius.

His whole body was burning up and he was sweating profusely. He slept in a daze for a long time, losing all sense of his surroundings. He couldn't even see clearly whether the person who got up to take care of him in the middle of the night was Lucas or Noah, or whether it was noon at all. In any case, time had lost its meaning.

He slept for eighteen hours straight, and had no recollection of whether he had eaten or not. In his dazed state, he couldn't even tell where he was.

It took me a while to realize that the Oscars were three days ago, but my memory of the rest of the awards ceremony was completely blank.

The high fever has finally subsided, and I've lost my appetite, but my mouth just doesn't taste like anything.

Noah insisted that Anson must drink the porridge, something Lucas had repeatedly told him to do, and even Anson couldn't change his mind.

Anson wouldn't mind rolling up his sleeves and cooking himself, but to be honest, he lacked confidence in himself.

So, after figuring out where Lucas was, Anson showed up at his door, saying he would go back to New York if Lucas didn't take him out for a big meal that day.

Confused and disoriented, Anson's perception of the world remained vague; though his feet were on the ground, he still couldn't feel gravity.

At this moment, bathed in golden sunlight, muscles and cells slowly relax, and the string hidden deep in the soul seems to finally loosen a little.

I let out a soft sigh. The past two months have been too hectic and hectic, with one thing after another. My mind and body haven't had a chance to relax. Maybe I should take a good rest for a while, or maybe go to Columbus's studio for inspiration, or perhaps go on a vacation to an island.

But once things quieted down a bit, memories of that Golden Globe night came flooding back like a tidal wave…

"Feel sorry."

A voice interrupted his thoughts, and Anson opened his eyes again, only to see the receptionist's nervous and bewildered face.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you."

Anson smiled, a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. "It's alright, I don't mind."

Ruth took a deep breath. "I was just thinking... I was just worried... maybe you might need to take some sugar, but I'm not really sure..."

He was incoherent and gesticulating wildly.

Ruth felt like an idiot.

"Oh," Anson exclaimed softly, "Thank you, I do need it." Anson took the coffee and donut from the girl. "May I ask your name?"

"Ruth! My name is Ruth!"

“Russ, thank you. But, shh, please don’t tell Luca about this; it’s our secret.” Anson put a finger to his lips.

Ruth nodded vigorously, her feet feeling as if they were on clouds. Reason told her she should leave and there was no need to make a fuss, but reason failed her, and she stood there pacing like a fool.

More importantly, she didn't even dare to look directly at that face, even though that name was all she could think about right now.

It's like being ecstatic while basking in the sunlight, yet afraid to look directly at the sun.

After much hesitation, Ruth couldn't control herself. "You've worked so hard lately. Brilliant performance. Absolutely brilliant." She had to use all her strength to barely suppress the urge to scream. "Whether it's the Grammys, the Oscars, or Paris and London."

"Everything is perfect!"

Ruth finished speaking in a low voice, her heart pounding like a drum, as if she was about to vomit. She had been working in Burbank for over a year and had seen all sorts of actors, directors, screenwriters, and producers. She admitted that she had given a small scream when she saw Tom Cruise and Leonardo DiCaprio, but what she saw now was different, completely different. Her mind went blank, and she could barely breathe.

Stealthily raising his eyes, Ruth mustered all his courage to glance at Anson, only to find himself meeting those deep blue eyes. He said, "Thank you."

Ruth: Ahhh!

But on the surface, she controlled herself and gave a shy smile, "Then I won't bother you anymore. If you need anything, just let me know."

I turned to leave, but I couldn't help myself; I clenched my fists and screamed inwardly.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
His feet started to jump uncontrollably; it was the only way to control the volcanic eruption within him. Ruth felt as if he were in heaven at that moment.

Martin witnessed the entire scene and wondered if he was hallucinating.

How can this be?

My first instinct was that it was absurd, and my second thought was "ambush." ​​Did that guy know I had a meeting scheduled today, so he came here specifically to ambush me and catch me off guard?
The thought had barely formed in his mind when Martin shook his head in denial. He was still used to seeing the dark side of people and associated everything with negative thoughts like conspiracy and trickery. He should control himself. After all, his last encounter with this person proved that he had been judging others by his own petty standards, hadn't he?

Moreover, he came to us of his own accord. If that person was deliberately waiting and lying in ambush here, that would be a good thing, because it would be exactly what he wanted, meaning that his mission today is very likely to be accomplished smoothly.

Martin sat quietly, sorting out his thoughts, trying to find a possibility among the various possibilities that would actually occur in real life.

Then, I raised my head and stared quietly at that figure for a long, long time, until all the struggles in my mind disappeared.

Martin let out a long breath, stood up, and strode to sit down next to the man, just as he had done ten days earlier in the BBC lobby.

The BBC incident happened only ten days ago, but why does it feel like a lifetime ago?
Regardless, he's made up his mind, hasn't he? From London to Los Angeles, he's personally visited them; he's already taken ninety-nine steps, so one last step won't make a difference.

“…Anson?” Martin mustered his courage and called out.

In fact, slapping yourself isn't as difficult as you might imagine.

Anson looked in the direction of the sound, paused for a moment, and a hint of confusion appeared in his eyes.

Martin explained, "Martin McDonagh."

Anson gave him a polite smile. "Hey, Martin. Want some coffee and donuts?"

Martin rolled his eyes. "This is American junk food."

Anson, however, didn't seem to mind at all, taking a bite of the donut. "So what's British junk food?"

Martin: ...

A lump was stuck in his throat, but this time it was different from the BBC. Martin was mentally prepared. "Friday Night with Jonathan Ross" showcased excellent dark humor, with his casual sarcasm and unflappable deadpan comedian. He was definitely not the stereotypical pretty face.

Martin quipped, half-jokingly, "Fish and chips?"

Then, Martin turned to meet Anson's eyes, thinking that a short, sharp pain was better than a long, drawn-out one, and asked, "If I invited you to star in my movie, would you be willing?"

Anson: "No."

Martin: ...

Concise and straightforward.

In an instant, Martin's breathing was completely cut off, and all his mental preparation was useless at this moment.

(End of this chapter)