Thursday, August 18, 2011


She was gorgeous. Her porcelain skin, her dark blond hair, her slightly exaggerated make-up to match her amazing early 20th century wardrobe and demeanor.

We were acting together in a production of "You Can't Take It With You" and sometimes the process of rehearsal can alight intellectual relationships. We loved! That's what we did and we did it well. I was married and she had a boyfriend. All we did was love to talk, and to talk often.

There is a scene in the play where the Russian ballet teacher shows the stuffy rich man a wrestling maneuver. He picks up the rich man over his head and slams him to the floor. Oh, don't worry, it's acting. The move is accomplished with the intention that the "victim" is not really hurt. Like TV wrestling.

Her boyfriend played the ballet teacher and I played the stuffy rich man. One night while performing the aforementioned stunt, the boyfriend really threw me to the floor. The show, of course, went on, but at intermission I discovered bad cuts on my heels and bruises on my back. Since I knew how to fall I didn't bounce my head off the stage.

What the fuck? Her boyfriend explained he was jealous. But, all we did was talk! He knew he was wrong now and he was sorry. It had just came over him. He was sorry, sorry, sorry. To me, she seemed pissed, pissed, pissed. And wearing circa 1900 clothes.

I healed over time and sometimes wonder if the boyfriend did, too. Not everything you see on stage is an illusion, but, she was gorgeous.

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