I’m here for the stage. That’s the entire reason I went and asked the department head this afternoon if I could jump into being a part of the production even though they were already partway through.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to be on the stage. There’s not any part of my body that has any interest in getting up in front of an audience and performing a flimsy rendition of an already tired and overdone play. I’m here to take the black slabs of wood that make up the stage and turn them into the whimsical settings for the play. It doesn’t really matter much to me what happens after they’re made. I just want to create.
“Talon!”
The blonde girl I met yesterday rushes up to me. Her thick hair is twisted up on the back of her head, and she’s changed into tight stretchy pants, and a t-shirt scooped low over her ample cleavage. It takes me a few seconds to remember her name.
“Hi, Samantha. I didn’t know you were in the play,” I say.
She blushes like I just propositioned her and directs her cleavage toward me.
“I’m the choreographer,” she grins. “I’m working on the dances for some of the fairy scenes.”
That narrows it down to the entire play, but I don’t mention it. I’m not in the market for a deep and meaningful conversation with Samantha. The way her eyes move up and down me, I don’t think that’s what she’s after, either.
“So, you’re a dancer?” I ask.
She nods. Before she can answer, the theater door opens, and Wren comes in. Her shaggy dog of a boyfriend holds her hand but keeps a respectable six inches between them. They can’t possibly have their hips touching. That would be too much of a scandal. Her eyes lock with mine, and we stare at each other for a few seconds before she lets out a sigh.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Probably the same thing you are,” I snap back. “I’m here for rehearsal.”
“I thought you said A Midsummer Night’s Dream was just far too predictable. Why would you want to have anything to do with that?”
“I’m not here to be in the play,” I tell her. “I joined the crew.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Probably because he wants to be a part of it,” Samantha cuts in. “We’re always looking for people willing to help out on the crew. I think you’d be happy for the extra hands.”
A hint of color touches Wren’s cheeks, and her eyes flicker down to where my hands hang down by my sides. It only lasts a fraction of a second before she lifts her chin again and shakes her head.
“Doesn’t matter to me. I’m not part of the crew. But I’m sure they’ll appreciate someone who’s willing to work. If he’s willing to work,” she says.
She tugs on Isaiah’s hand, and they make their way down to the front of the stage. I watch them for a few seconds. His hands go up to touch her waist, but they barely make contact with her. His palms and fingers hover just so they graze against her shirt. He keeps his body away from hers and smiles down into her face. She reaches up and brushes a piece of his hair away from his forehead, and my jaw clenches.
“So, would you want to?” Samantha asks.
I realize I’ve missed some sort of conversation she’s been carrying on with me. I don’t care.
“I should get backstage. It doesn’t look like much work has been done on the sets, and it’s time to get started,” I tell her.
I pull off my jacket as I walk down the slanted aisle for the stage and drape it across the back of a seat. Wren looks over Isaiah’s shoulder at me as I jump up onto the stage, but quickly looks back at him when I glance her way. He’s oblivious, but that seems to be his general theme.
Half an hour later, I’m in the wing, contemplating a large piece of canvas fabric in swirls of greens and yellows I don’t completely understand. The tall, wild-eyed girl in charge of set design gave me a lot of abstract instructions, including wanting the sets to look heavily perfumed and evoke a sense of the inside of a flower right on the peak of spring blooming. I have absolutely no idea what the fuck she’s talking about, but she smiled and made a few happy gestures the last time she walked by my canvas, so I guess I’m on the right path.
Out on stage, Samantha is leading a group of dancers in a warm-up. She’s very aware of my position and keeps angling her body to present it to me. Each long stretch forward threatens to make her breasts spill out of her shirt. Though my understanding of dance approximates to an in-depth amount of nothing, I’m fairly certain the way she’s forcing her ass to the side and twisting it toward me is going to do more harm to her hips than good. But my attention barely registers her. Every time I look up at the practice, my eyes go to the corner of the front row to Wren.
She’s wearing a pair of stretch pants a shade of pink slightly lighter than the ones she wore the first night I saw her through her bedroom window, and a pale purple shirt cropped at her hips. Each time she stretches, the hem moves up just enough to reveal a narrow strip of smooth, pale skin.
When the warmup is over, Samantha divides the group into pairs. A guy with a blond ponytail and a muscle shirt that has yet to fulfill the destiny of its name on him walks up to Wren. They smile at each other familiarly, and he reaches out for her. Unlike Isaiah, the guy’s hands touch her fully, one pressing to the center of her back and the other grasping her hand.
I keep painting as they dance, my hand getting tighter on the brush handle as their bodies get closer. Strands of her hair slip free of her ponytail and tumble around her face. A slight sheen of sweat forms on her neck and across her collarbones. The guy with the muscle-less shirt notices, and his eyes linger too long, his tongue sliding across his lips. His hand spreads further across Wren’s back, and he pulls her up against him in a yank that almost takes her off her feet. I’m on mine in an instant.
“What are you doing?” Wren demands.
“I’m sorry. I tripped,” the guy replies. “Come on, let’s try it again.”
He tripped like I played Maria in West Side Story. But Wren takes it in stride and steps back up to his waiting arms. I glance into the house and see her boyfriend sitting two rows back, watching her with a goofy grin on his face. He hasn’t even moved. The same part of his brain that makes him able to completely resist touching her is the part that keeps him from noticing that this guy has no problem with it.
I sit back down to continue the backdrop, and they start to dance again. Blond Ponytail manages to make it past the fateful tripping moment in the routine, but then he lifts her. His hand goes to her inner thigh and slides up toward her hip. I drop the paintbrush and stalk out onto the stage. He lowers her down shakily and steps back. Wren whips around to face me as the other dancers get out of the way.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I need this space,” I say.
“For what?”
“The backdrop. I need to spread it out and make sure the colors are right under the stage lights.”
It’s bullshit, but I don’t care. As long as his hand is nowhere near her thigh, they can think anything they want.
“We’re in the middle of a rehearsal,” she protests.
“And I’m in the middle of trying to make whatever the cast slaps together look halfway decent for the audience. Maybe it will even help hide some of the god awful dance moves you can’t seem to learn.”