It happens. It just does. Sometimes by a brief conversation, sometimes by an embarrassed I love you and hidden face in knitwear, sometimes it just happens and it hits you like lightning or sometimes you hesitate to remember how it did.
It just happened, that’s it.
Like when you see a flash, something unreal and then you find it most common. Like when you realize how devoted you are to that feeling, to love, that it becomes natural, like a gasp of air, like an exhale of smoke, like a gulp of water, like an awkward first kiss.
I counted that as a first kiss. Just like that.
I felt confident.
I didn’t care about anything. I knew what I felt. I felt real.
I didn’t know his name, never gave him one, none matched him.
I didn’t see him, even if I flinched every time I saw somebody similar.
In reality I never searched. I knew he was there, stroking the back of my neck, as we’d watch ‘Control’, flinch at Debbie’s scream. It’s stupid, isn’t it, how you find similar addictions.
“Do you like Control?”
“Love it.”
Even if it’s planned out, I love it. I hated school, as usual, but he’d be there, holding my hand, stroking my cheek, as the teacher would turn. He’d roll his eyes at Leslie, shoo Jonny, avoid Graham. I knew what hair dye colour he used. I knew everything. Absolutely everything. He knew everything.
Everything.
Everything.
“We have practice, Bo. You coming?” Leslie asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a girlfriend, did he not? I saw them making out yesterday. It was not in my head. I spied on him and so did my red head. Just like that, we spied from behind the corner. Teal eyes snickering, singing childish songs, before he lost his attention. I was better looking, at least according to him.
I nodded. Knowing that nothing would be bad. I had been acting all my life. I took the third to the last small role, usually. Something small, not much to learn, something I could put my soul into, but certainly not get the spotlight. Why would I want that? That’s right. Usually the main heroine needed to have her head exposed and arms something I’d never do. Except once when Juliet got ill, a role bigger than my own I got dragged in by the teacher. I washed my pink steaks off, rubbed my scribbles. I ran away from the party, escaping all congratulations, rubbing ink onto my skin, making my steaks bright. I skipped a week, ignoring all flashing faces with a grin with congratulations on my part. It wasn’t easy, but I hated the fake smiles admitting how brilliant I was. I don’t want to know that.
I’m not brilliant. I just play how I feel. Sometimes I feel so into those phrases up to the point that I forget everything. I feel Martha’s slipper hitting my cheek due to the constant repeating, but she never throws it. She sleeps like a log, not hearing or answering anything. I talked to her once, aloud, feeling depressed over a mark I believe. Maybe it was due to the global warming project or some other crappy assignment. I don’t remember. Jonny couldn’t hold it. I didn’t have the red head then, laying beside me in the bed, something Jonny never did.
Where was Jonny?
He still was on my wallpaper, holding his guitar, his lips looking all kissable, but not now.
I was loyal.
I had a boyfriend.
I tried to search for red heads which would actually resemble him, but nothing. He was unique with that smile, loosed ties, sometimes which I loosened. I just pull and that was it, an intense, no dumb gaze, no embarrassment, just is. I had no one who could replace.
It felt not right.
But I never told myself that, I never realized, I just went on, feeling a sense of curiosity as the auditions would come. He walked behind me the hands in the pockets, kick the door open, then shrug at his sudden movement. Just like that. He’d smile.
“Roberta! Finally, I’ve got-“
Role. I looked at it, knowing how late I was. I still had a main role. So many phrases and the dress requirements were the same. No tuque. No scribbles. I scanned it through, looking at the teacher.
Weird how the roles either of Juliet or Romeo change lives. Then you’re Juliet not only on stage, but in real life, fearing that everybody is expecting a dagger or a gun, in other words suicide at the age of fourteen, which I had passed. Why did suicide attract so many people? Just the thought of the gun, dagger, poison or quick path to the unknown or rather end. Just end. Blackness. No one to hold. No one holds you back.
Bald. Black framed glasses. Velvet light brown suit. Piercing furious looking eyes. I looked at him. Had everybody else left? No. They were there, some in their costumes looking at the loner holding the second main female role in a play I had not yet read. I looked at the first pages the words scattering, pilling into ants who ran around. Just like that. Ants. Nothing else. Insignificant ants which I could press my docs into and crush.
“Roberta?” I looked up, as the ants ran back into their holes forming known words. I nodded, as I knew that I couldn’t decline, no matter how much I’d despite that role.
“Can I-" Rehearse. Can I see the stage? The backstage?
“Sure.” I went backstage into the changing rooms. I walked past the spare curtains into the dusty, crumbled hall, clutching the script in my hand, knowing that a new student was waiting to get me dressed, some sort of addiction. Always rehearse in costumes. Well, everybody’s weird. I stopped in front of the costumes door, it’s bleached out white wrinkling in places. The thought were Leslie was appeared in my head. I looked around wondering if I made a sudden turn or if the costumes were now moved. Nothing. I shrugged and opened the door, feeling a light cold coming from the doorknob.
I made a sudden pull ignoring the gust of wind.
So epic.
Like the trees around me.
Trees?
Yes, trees.
Snow?
Yes, snow.
Costume room?
Not really.
And there certainly was no bright red exit sign printed on the other side of the door.
Chapter 11
It just happened, that’s it.
Like when you see a flash, something unreal and then you find it most common. Like when you realize how devoted you are to that feeling, to love, that it becomes natural, like a gasp of air, like an exhale of smoke, like a gulp of water, like an awkward first kiss.
I counted that as a first kiss. Just like that.
I felt confident.
I didn’t care about anything. I knew what I felt. I felt real.
I didn’t know his name, never gave him one, none matched him.
I didn’t see him, even if I flinched every time I saw somebody similar.
In reality I never searched. I knew he was there, stroking the back of my neck, as we’d watch ‘Control’, flinch at Debbie’s scream. It’s stupid, isn’t it, how you find similar addictions.
“Do you like Control?”
“Love it.”
Even if it’s planned out, I love it. I hated school, as usual, but he’d be there, holding my hand, stroking my cheek, as the teacher would turn. He’d roll his eyes at Leslie, shoo Jonny, avoid Graham. I knew what hair dye colour he used. I knew everything. Absolutely everything. He knew everything.
Everything.
Everything.
“We have practice, Bo. You coming?” Leslie asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a girlfriend, did he not? I saw them making out yesterday. It was not in my head. I spied on him and so did my red head. Just like that, we spied from behind the corner. Teal eyes snickering, singing childish songs, before he lost his attention. I was better looking, at least according to him.
I nodded. Knowing that nothing would be bad. I had been acting all my life. I took the third to the last small role, usually. Something small, not much to learn, something I could put my soul into, but certainly not get the spotlight. Why would I want that? That’s right. Usually the main heroine needed to have her head exposed and arms something I’d never do. Except once when Juliet got ill, a role bigger than my own I got dragged in by the teacher. I washed my pink steaks off, rubbed my scribbles. I ran away from the party, escaping all congratulations, rubbing ink onto my skin, making my steaks bright. I skipped a week, ignoring all flashing faces with a grin with congratulations on my part. It wasn’t easy, but I hated the fake smiles admitting how brilliant I was. I don’t want to know that.
I’m not brilliant. I just play how I feel. Sometimes I feel so into those phrases up to the point that I forget everything. I feel Martha’s slipper hitting my cheek due to the constant repeating, but she never throws it. She sleeps like a log, not hearing or answering anything. I talked to her once, aloud, feeling depressed over a mark I believe. Maybe it was due to the global warming project or some other crappy assignment. I don’t remember. Jonny couldn’t hold it. I didn’t have the red head then, laying beside me in the bed, something Jonny never did.
Where was Jonny?
He still was on my wallpaper, holding his guitar, his lips looking all kissable, but not now.
I was loyal.
I had a boyfriend.
I tried to search for red heads which would actually resemble him, but nothing. He was unique with that smile, loosed ties, sometimes which I loosened. I just pull and that was it, an intense, no dumb gaze, no embarrassment, just is. I had no one who could replace.
It felt not right.
But I never told myself that, I never realized, I just went on, feeling a sense of curiosity as the auditions would come. He walked behind me the hands in the pockets, kick the door open, then shrug at his sudden movement. Just like that. He’d smile.
“Roberta! Finally, I’ve got-“
Role. I looked at it, knowing how late I was. I still had a main role. So many phrases and the dress requirements were the same. No tuque. No scribbles. I scanned it through, looking at the teacher.
Weird how the roles either of Juliet or Romeo change lives. Then you’re Juliet not only on stage, but in real life, fearing that everybody is expecting a dagger or a gun, in other words suicide at the age of fourteen, which I had passed. Why did suicide attract so many people? Just the thought of the gun, dagger, poison or quick path to the unknown or rather end. Just end. Blackness. No one to hold. No one holds you back.
Bald. Black framed glasses. Velvet light brown suit. Piercing furious looking eyes. I looked at him. Had everybody else left? No. They were there, some in their costumes looking at the loner holding the second main female role in a play I had not yet read. I looked at the first pages the words scattering, pilling into ants who ran around. Just like that. Ants. Nothing else. Insignificant ants which I could press my docs into and crush.
“Roberta?” I looked up, as the ants ran back into their holes forming known words. I nodded, as I knew that I couldn’t decline, no matter how much I’d despite that role.
“Can I-" Rehearse. Can I see the stage? The backstage?
“Sure.” I went backstage into the changing rooms. I walked past the spare curtains into the dusty, crumbled hall, clutching the script in my hand, knowing that a new student was waiting to get me dressed, some sort of addiction. Always rehearse in costumes. Well, everybody’s weird. I stopped in front of the costumes door, it’s bleached out white wrinkling in places. The thought were Leslie was appeared in my head. I looked around wondering if I made a sudden turn or if the costumes were now moved. Nothing. I shrugged and opened the door, feeling a light cold coming from the doorknob.
I made a sudden pull ignoring the gust of wind.
So epic.
Like the trees around me.
Trees?
Yes, trees.
Snow?
Yes, snow.
Costume room?
Not really.
And there certainly was no bright red exit sign printed on the other side of the door.
Chapter 11
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