uring our second date, on a chilly day, on our walk back from the museum, he asks, “Do you find coincidence flavors your life?”

“Very much,” with so much exhilaration.

“Me too.”

We have a lot of hand-action; we touch hands, cup them, hold them, put hands in pockets with other hands; he tickles my hand with a toothpick in a restaurant. We have hot chocolate and a bagel and he doesn’t remove his coat and I note this to him because he hasn’t said anything for a while and I think an observation might cause keen enough discomfort to force him to get with it. I think this might work because when I feel noticed it seems to rush blood to my sleepy parts. He explains, “I’m uncomfortable.” He stares in my eyes. We meet mostly at eyes.

“I’m getting nervous here; you don’t say anything for so long.” It’s an old habit of mine: when very tense, blurt: it gets a result either way.

“I talk more than I used to.”

“You mean now you say two words instead of one?” I lean across the table to him. His lids droop and he smiles, keeping his mouth shut. “I’m sorry.” I scoop his hand. “I couldn’t resist, I’m sorry.”

It’s raining outside. “You know, you stare a lot,” I say.

“As long as it doesn’t get tacky, tell me if it does.”

“No, it couldn’t get tacky; I always think you have very sensitive eyes.” He likes this, looks honestly flattered.

I tell him about my family and ask him about his—how do they feel about his writing plays? He feels they’re very accepting, although they express concern—how will he support a family. He tells me his father is a workaholic and his mother makes miniature antique furniture for doll-houses.

It’s getting late so we leave. Before the train entrance he kisses me. He looks away and touches my mouth with his. His teeth make a little gate. Without being forceful, we surrender in a long kiss. I look at a lady leaning against a department store window, wonder if she resents people kissing in the middle of the street, if she’s like me; probably not.

I pull away, need to say something. “I’ve never kissed someone so long out in the street like this.” I laugh a little.

“Neither have I.” He raises his arm as an exclamation mark. “We could’ve gotten robbed or murdered or something.” He kisses me again.

“That’s the way it would happen in one of your plays.”

He laughs. Since it’s raining we get wet.

“It’s hard to leave you like this,” he says, and goes.

bout to start the next scene. Kevin’s in a long blue pea coat, I think he’s playing the gentleman. In any case, his looks inspire me to play the lady. He was more ruffled-looking in the previous scenes. His eyes look onyx now.

I would like to feel attracted to him, but my repulsion from last time lingers like a hangover. His changeability confuses me. I can’t quite determine whether he’s cold as I’ve been thinking or whether he really cares how his performance is impressing me. He’s been sulking in the part of Jagger, it seems to me, like he wants to get it over with. How can I perform animatedly while he’s so—withdrawn.

After every scene Kevin does something like give me a present; it’s very strange, as though he’s feeling guilty towards me about something. He gives me a page of outline for the following scene and kisses me, a peck as if he and I are old lovers who meet at a cocktail party and want to show no regrets. “Merry Christmas,” he says. This strikes me funny so I laugh. His eyeballs pool to the side of his head. They are extremely large. He sits down in the chair intended for him to make the next phone call to Robin.

 

ext night he calls, invites me for dinner at his house. I agree. We see each other before then; he doesn’t talk so we sit in silence. I’m having my dinner now and he’s already eaten but I wish he’d have coffee or tea with me. I guess his mood is not to be oral at all. He walks me to class and we kiss bye.

verything moves very fast; there isn’t much time between the scenes to resolve anything with him.

 

hen I see him again and again he says nothing and stares. (I decide to play inconspicuous.)

hat?”

“I’m being facetious,” he says.

“Then I won’t answer.” We’re on the phone, I called him.

“I didn’t think you would; you never do when I’m facetious.”

(A performer’s mistake: it’s not wise to sum up a character’s behavior at the beginning. Kevin knows craft as well as I do; he’s faltering, I think.)

“What would Ophelia say now?” he asks.

What is it about Ophelia? “Ophelia wouldn’t be in this situation.” (He gives me the creeps.)

“Why not?”

“Because she’s in a play and this is life!” (“Stupid,” I mutter behind me where it can’t be heard.)

“Oh.” A short pause. “So now are we supposed to talk some more or are we going to end this conversation?”

“End,” I say. (I dislike the situation as much as he does, but I don’t force things; still, I’m not one to be bashful when, as they say, opportunity knocks...)

“Good, I like that idea. I’m tired. I look forward to seeing you Friday night.” He’s refreshed in politeness.

(I think it’s over. I look to the Director; he’s somewhere I can’t see. This means he’s watching for more.)

“I look forward to seeing you too!,” I say with contempt for any more lines.

 

e do the night scene) He’s an awkward cook; he tells me I can listen to music while he’s in the kitchen. “How hungry are you?” he asks. I can’t get the stereo to play, think this is a familiar diversion, toying with objects, accomplishing nothing, but the mechanics of doing something.

(trying to get the scene going) He drops hot melted butter on his new shoes. Complains; I try to help him wipe it off because he’s so upset—I assure him there must be some way to get it off. “They” must have something that removes butter from leather. I won’t impose my own resigned attitude towards things getting stained; I would just leave it.

He asks whether I’d like wine with dinner; I say “Yes.” He brings me a narrow plastic cup. I’m sure there are teeth marks on it. It’s the opaque sort I associate with families in which the children are considered brats. When the children grow up, the cups are used for the bathroom.

The wine doesn’t taste like wine; my tongue resists the flavor, goes rubbery in my mouth. He says, “This wine is awful.”

“Why did you get it?”

“Do we really have to say this out loud?”

He takes out the slices of spinach pie so awkwardly I feel I better not move. If I’m paralyzed, maybe it’ll lessen his self-consciousness. On the other hand, he might feel my stillness as burdensome. One of us needs to be the aggressor for the scene to keep moving. It’s a conflict I had as a child in my mother’s lap, whether moving or keeping still postponed ejection longer.

He sets the plates (no napkins) on an iron (it’s some kind of metal and it’s black, so I think, iron) table in front of the couch. “Did you ever have this before?” he asks. As though it’s a rare dish and so rare that nothing should be served with it.

(I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to be imagining the rest or if this is the way it actually is in this play.)

“You know it’s very hard for me when you don’t talk,” I say.

“I know I don’t talk much but you’re not exactly...”

“Extroverted.” He nods. “I think I talk more than you do. I try at least,” I say.

“I don’t think so, I think that’s a misperception on your part. I brought up the last three conversations.”

I consider this, figure it’s because I’m so nervous that I don’t remember them.

“It’s a paranoid tendency,” he says. I consider this too, but don’t think my complaint is pathological. I think it would be most normal to be getting up and out of this. “Look, we only see each other with each other, you may think you act differently with other people, but when we see each other it’s always with each other.”

“That’s a point,” I say.

His fork swoops on the pie, he eats large swaps at a time. He finishes. I tell him the inside of my pie is cold. He says, “I lost the recipe so I don’t remember how long to keep it in the oven.”

“Well, next time you make it you’ll know.” I imagine him using this as his specialty every time he invites a woman for dinner; feel bad for the woman who will be ‘next time.’ “It’s good though,” I add.

“I’m glad you like it.” He kisses my mouth. I unplug from his kiss and he stares at me. I have some more pie.

 

don’t want Kevin to see that I am worn down by his performance. Chin up, shoulders angled towards the spotlight, I’m ready for the next scene. I’m trying to clam down. I want to reach the end of this so badly; I know that’s a bad sign; it means I’m submitting to my feelings about him rather than believing my own hearty performance can knock him off. I want him to know I feel superior to him. He’s not going to get me down.

I sway when I walk; a feminine version of a manly swagger. Confidence, confidence, success, success. Where is all this going? Maybe I’m not really a good actress, maybe I shouldn’t be one, what am I doing here. In my eyes I want him to read I can’t be beat, hope to convince him.

“You’re really slow,” he says.

“I’m slow,” I say.

“How slow are you, can I ask?”

“ If you want to know the truth, real slow.” Where are we going with this?

 

et me give you the grand tour of the apartment, he says. This is the kitchen, and when he brings me to a toilet I say don’t tell me this must be the bathroom. Then he brings me to the bedroom. Identifies the bookshelf here. And back to the kitchen.

He stays inside there and I stay in the living room. Which is your record collection? Mine are on the left. Jazz and classical only. Yep, split the words from the music and I guess you have something like Jagger himself.

He tells me his last weekend home sucked. His mother had a friend over, a fellow doll-house miniaturist, who is successful and she talked his ears off and he had to smile and nod for hours, you know, be the polite host, and when he came home he kicked the walls and all he felt like doing was slamming something. His voice is violent; I picture his leg rising to smash.

He lights a candle on the table before we eat. A few minutes later he pfffhs it out. It’s my roommate’s candle, he says.

I’ve come far from home to get here and it’s unsafe for me to leave when it’s late. Why did I let me talk myself into coming? I had reservations. I called him this morning and told him I thought tonight wasn’t a good idea. He said, You have to come I’m making this big dinner and besides, I really want you to—we’ll be kind to each other, I promise.

Maybe being grossly insecure makes you not good with aesthetics. Luckily I brought some beautiful music along with me. He lies on the couch, appears to revel, says—this is beautiful. I can’t imagine what’s in his mind as he listens. I’ve always felt this music was so sensual. I think he’d be self-conscious when he danced.

“Isn’t it good, isn’t it good?” I say. He pulls me down to kiss him. “Let’s talk some more.”

“You should meet my roommate Bill. He’s very friendly. Some people have the gift of gab, I just am not that fortunate.”

“Can I ask you a mother question?” he asks. “Do you do a lot of cooking for yourself?”

“No.”

“Did you ever think of having a sex change operation?” he asks.

“No. You have?”

“Yes, just because of the pressures this society puts on men. Do you want some water?” he asks.

“I’d really like some water,” I say.

“This wine is awful, there’s so much sugar in it. You know when I was young I had very bad reactions to sugar, it was a very bad time in my life. I suppose you don’t feel much need to talk about your past since you write about it.” He sits up.

“Well, when I talk about it I’m serious, you know what I mean? It won’t be used to fill up space, no matter how much I need a topic to discuss.”

“You stare at me when you’re confident, did you know that?”

“I do?”

“What color are your eyes—oh, they’re changing right now,” as he examines them close. “They’re chameleons.”

“So are yours,” I say.

 

ou’d think things couldn’t get too bad, that the Director knows what he’s doing when he suggests an experiment. Well, how could he possibly know. I just have to do the best I can; if I drop it now I won’t get a turn on stage for months.

“If you have any sexual fantasies in your packet, I’d like to read them,” Kevin says.

“I’m just trying to impress you,” he adds. “I was thinking you were hip.”

“Don’t you think we could talk about what’s going on between us in the scenes? Aren’t you confused?”

“Look, as a matter of principle, I don’t like to discuss my improvs. For my sanity’s sake, I’d rather not.”

“Okay.”

“Is that all right? You understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad,” he says. “I like your ring. I love the color of the coat you were wearing before. Do you know how many affairs go on in this business? You act a love scene with someone, and you can’t help but feel—”

“Can you return my packet please, the next scene’s coming.”

 

nce I flag down on isolated ground my mouth goes berserk with questions like a caught fish beating in all directions.

“I like your jokes but why don’t you answer my questions?,” I ask.

“The press conference is over.”

“But can’t a press-person follow the speaker outside?”

“The President isn’t taking any more questions.”

“But could, can, I mean—”

“Blah blah blah. There’s some baby food in the refrigerator.”

My eyes stick looking at him. There’s something very real about the anger I feel: the air’s sparkly and the light swells in its bowl; shows a life like a plant’s.

I’d get madder, but it’s a ghost of a rage that’s visiting me now.

He pokes his eyes at mine, in exaggerated imitation. I press my face where the back cushion and seat cushion meet. We’re lying on the couch, his head’s propped on an arm of it.

I face out, say, “Don’t mock me.”

“I don’t mean to mock you, really, it’s just my sense of humor.”

“Well then it’s obnoxious.”

“A lot of people think my jokes are obnoxious. I really am sorry.”

He kisses me. I let and take; after arguments my need is great and I bend at little pressure.

At some point my apologetic passion fades. His kissing is fast, no longer seducing. He’s hungry on me, unbuttons my blouse. He’d plunge the same if I were a corpse. I re-button.

“Let’s go look at my bookshelf now,” he says. Seconds later I match the bookshelf with his bedroom, am entertained by his ‘cubist’ approach; though the mentality here is as commercial as Let’s Make A Deal.

“Jagger, let’s talk some more.” I sit up at the opposite end of the couch. (I’m a bit sheepish here. I don’t see the Director anywhere. I guess he means for me to continue.)

“That’s because you’re a girl.”

“What does that mean?”

“Uh-oh. I didn’t mean that. Just kidding.”

“Girls like to talk?”

“Well, it’s been my experience that they like it more than boys—what’s been your experience?,” he says. Nods his head on back of my arm.

He curls, snorts, pushes me down beside him, kissing me on the way. Puts hands in my shirt, moves them quickly, as though speed is enough to get him where he wants. We could race it and blur.

(I’m in a zoo. Rather, I am in a play. I hate this anonymous condition. I have a part, or rather, the part has me. I have to make the impersonal personal, otherwise there is no point, no one will experience anything. For myself, too, I can’t be impersonal.

(To surrender with someone who has completely different feelings or rather has none of the same feelings, I mean it doesn’t do anything positive or negative for me, it’s just a neutral fact. I can’t get away from this neutral fact business. There’s no reason to be doing any of this.)

(“Let’s try,” Kevin whispers, “let go.”) When I cry from my belly no sound comes from my mouth. I want to surrender, scream, be savage. It’s a very human cry, the cry to be inhuman. But I’ll never make it no matter how I scream. I can’t get rid of my insides the way he can.

“Let’s go look at my bookshelf now,” he says. He climbs me, sits erect. The stall in action helps me breathe; it’s a chance for me to be myself, naturally, unabruptly.

“I don’t think I can do what you want.”

“Well, c’mon, let’s try.” Hooks my arm with his, rears to launch from the couch.

“No, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want some more wine?” First I think he’s picked up the way I want to play it; for an instant I’m convinced he’s being sociable. Then I remember how clever he is with that cubist approach. He’s thinking wine will loosen me up. At least if the wine were passable I could forgive his misunderstanding. But in this case, it would be like using a laxative.

I am offended at the implication that my performance choice is the result of being constipated.

(we each are quiet for about three minutes)

“I thought I’d be impulsive, but I can’t,” I say. “There are too many things I have to do, I have to keep a balance.” (In case I hurt his feelings.)

“I’ll tell you something that puts me off-balance—all your questions. I wasn’t going to say anything, but.”

“So why didn’t you say it before when I was asking them?”

“Because I was still trying to be a good host.”

“Ah, you have such etiquette.” I stretch my legs, cross them, feet on the table. “Life is strange.” (Sounding trite is what’s appropriate here.)

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

“Why were you thinking it?” (Maybe an existential conversation now?)

“Because this is a kind of deja vu experience for me.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s just a typical experience for me, that’s all. It hasn’t happened for a long time with a girl. I know not to take it personally.”

“No, you should take it personally.”

“Right.”

He kisses me. “Do you want to read what I’m working on now?” His eyes get even larger and lubricant. Mania.

“Sure.” I’m glad for a different kind of communication.

It’s a story. It’s like Mr. Goodbar, except the woman is totally submissive to her rape and afterwards he cuts her into pieces with a knife. Hatred for his mother oozes from his brain.

“Momma” A story about a man’s first visit to a prostitute
Usually Dick doesn’t dress up but for the occasion of her he does. He likes it when she asks him for things. He pretends he just got his coat out of the cleaners for her, takes off his boots before they mark up the carpet, she’s lonely and he’s keeping her company. He’s her special boy. His prick stiffens when he thinks of the next man. He’d like to take the can-opener off the dresser and cut her open with it. “Hey, momma,” he says, pulls her hair, slaps her ass, “can I please do something for you?” With the feeling he’s a servant he mounts her. “You want it this way?,” he says. “Laugh,” he says. “Kiss,” he says, shoves her where he wants her. She’s no different than the rest, he thinks. He thinks of the guy who chopped some of the girls up, hid them under the plywood in his house. Coming.

“Do you get the metaphor?”

“It’s a bit hard not to,” I say. Chuckle, ha-ha.

“Do you think it’s good?”

“It depends where you’re taking it after this. So far it’s pretty gross, I mean it has effect, power...”

(This is terrifying: was this what Kevin was working on during intermissions? Or is it found material in his packet? I don’t want to risk antagonizing him so I don’t ask. I don’t want to say one word to him, in fact. He might be like a psychopath. Kevin might be a psychopath. He might not separate his acting from his life; and now what will I be in for? The class has a directory with all our names, addresses and phone numbers.. He could stalk me, even if I get off scot free now.

(I cut it out. Things don’t happen like this in life.) “You sure you get it?,” he’s saying.

“I’m sure. It’s like a nightmare.”

“I want so much to be good.”

“I understand,” I say. “I can relate.”

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“I just expected more tenderness.”

“I was rough?”

“Yeah,” I say. I shrink, become a dot.

He washes the dishes. Then we go to sleep.

 

s a matter of form, the Director has us return to where we began.

I’d like to kiss Jagger or for him to show me something gentle. He’s still mad at me for last night, but we could discard it as a mistake. We haven’t so much as touched hands since that final hour before sleep.

I cling to his waist. His robe is knotted on its overlap tightly. Still, in this sitting position, there’s nothing to keep it from riding up his bare thigh if I brush it slightly so he can’t hold me responsible. I wonder why he’s not dressing; he told me before we had coffee that he has to write this morning. I f he wants to hurry me out shouldn’t he be dressing?

Maybe if I volunteer the softness that must also be in him somewhere—I cling like I’m afraid, curl to hide in his stomach. I’m not ashamed anymore. But I am. It’s the truth of why she came and why stays. I trench deeper, don’t hesitate.

He’s being a real trooper about this. My head stretches near a robe pocket. His head scuttles like a pebble down my back.

Think of our pose for a snapshot.

I need to get carried away here. My thoughts wander to a past performance, not too long ago; I remember the character’s monologue when she’s walking through a park:

There’s no way to shake off the attacks of spring fever. Can be cute, can be witty, but cynicism seems best. In April you’re still hoping, and dreading. By May you have to resign yourself for another go around.

How to keep myself sane.... how not to twist and turn and make a fool of myself by stretching out to anyone who offers relief... why is it so bad now. The weather and my period. The combination is torturous, but we must be civilized. Maybe if I didn’t have anyone to think about. But what else is there to think about in this warm weather?

Why doesn’t anyone want me I could be nice I would be just give me a chance I know I’ll demand too much I won’t stay mature I know all my faults.

Some love song on the air

“Did you use to love this song when you were younger?”

“No. I never even analyzed it.”

“Did he mis-hear ‘love’ for ‘analyze’? I’m not interested enough to query.

Jagger puckers. His lips are flexible and elastic as putty. When he’s just listening to me, or I’m answering one of his practical questions, his eyes remind me of ravens, eyelashes brambled like trees against the sky. We’re doing so little script and so many pictures—it’s like a children’s book.

I go out of the room to dress. When I reach for my comb on Jagger’s bookshelf I see a black and white photo of him: how old? Eager, surreptitious, I inspect it. I’ve never seen Jagger look the way he looked last night. The face in the picture reminds me of boys who herd supermarket carriages.

I put my boots on, everything but my coat. He’s sitting on the couch same as when I left, like a good boy strapped in a car-seat that outsizes him, or a gentleman of the highest order who is weighed down by delicate grave matters. Also the cassette’s repeating. He’ll turn it off the moment I’m gone.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for not giving you a ride to the station,” he says.

“I’m ready,” I say. He plays dead.

“I’ll have one more cigarette and then I’ll leave,” I say. “It’ll be my timer.” We’re used to some ritual before departing: usually it’s a handshake, or a kiss, or the word ‘bye’ or standing up together, so I‘m improvising with a smoke.

“You know something?”

“What?”

“You smoke too much,” he says.

“Well, see ya.”

He shakes his head no, laughs.

I open his screen door.

Ana, I’d give you the car keys but it might stall out at the lights; I’m trying to conserve on gas.

It’s okay Kevin, we finished, it’s over now. I don’t need your car for anything.

Just because the scenes didn’t go the way you wanted them to is no reason to get bitter, Ana, you had at least as much as I to do with how it turned out. No hard feelings, eh?

It’s just that I put so much into it.

Are you mad at me?

 

unlight is spooling on the ground; just wide flat threads adding up, lengthening the further the sun sets; finally they will be gone altogether, they will have reached their limit and been swallowed up.

[END]

© 2005 Shira Dentz - Contributor's Bio

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