If We Were Villains

the memories flood through me like a drug, razor sharp, crystal clear, kaleidoscopic.

We separated an inch and looked at each other with wide, unguarded eyes. Nothing about her had ever seemed simple, but she was, then. Simple and close and beautiful. A little tousled, a little damaged.

"Where've you been?"

"Outside. Alexander rolled you a spliff if you want it."

"God bless the filthy hedonist...”

"You're out of control!" she yelled. "You need to be in a straitjacket."

"Well, maybe we could share one."

"You look fucking amazing”, I said, in the split second I had to speak when she pulled my shirt up over my head.

She tossed it across the room. "Yeah, I know”

The fact that she knew was somehow sexier than pretending she didn't. I fumbled for the zipper on the side of her dress and said, "Great, just making sure."

"Why don't you just tell me what happened? No performance. No poetics."

"For us, everything was a performance." A small, private smile catches me off guard and I glance down, hoping he won't see it. "Everything poetic."

I couldn't help but wonder if my own expression was so staid, if perhaps I was a better actor than I'd always thought and none of them suspected that there was some sick, silent laughter trapped in my throat.

But maybe every day we let grief in, we'll also let a little bit of it out, and eventually we'll be able to breathe again. At least, that's how Shakespeare would tell the story.

Вот она, уникальная пытка для актера – иметь безраздельное, отчаянное внимание публики и повернуться к ней спиной от стыда.

“Anything can feel like punishment if it's taught poorly.”