(still drafting)

He tucked whatever was left in his left breast pocket, shook his umbrella, opened it, and walked away.

It felt like summer, except inside you, you know? It felt like galaxies that were spinning forever suddenly stop, and then rushing through you. And then ravaging you, but in a good way, so then when they’d resume spinning, you’d be left bare. Then in your veins, where blood used to be, there would be memories and the faint scent of happiness. That’s what it felt like. 

I. 

It's all about drama, and lighting, and strike a pose and what's my line? and blocking, people! blocking!  It was about more power! and feel his pain! but I don't think theater ever understood that that was the problem. I'd watch him from where I stood, stage left; he'd be sitting on that little wooden stool with a chipboard clipboard in his lap, and he'd fidget with his fingers, and whenever our eyes met, he'd look up. 

Hi, I see you around a lot. He just nodded and smiled. You're really quiet for a theater person. He said he got that a lot. 

Later, after rehearsals, I saw him packing up with the rest of the production crew and I waited. I know it sounds creepy and in hindsight, I guess it was, but I waited for him by the door. Everyone had gone, it was just him in there and so I decided to take another peek at the stage -- and there he was, right smack in the center of it all with the lights off and the audience empty. He looked up at the boxes, and proceeded to give (in this broken voice), he, he told a story. He bled that story. In tears and bones and fluidity, he told, in agony he bore through, and I would have believed he'd lived all the lives he had claimed had he not bowed at the end and walked away. 

II. 

"I just really like watching people, y'know? I like the theater because no one pretends to be real; it's sort of like metafiction. Actually working in theater, there is no suspension of disbelief, everyone knows that everyone is a mask, a mannequin." He took a sip of his drink. "And what's the point of pretending really? Why not just accept our being no one, and everyone, and everything in between -- we're all only here to communicate right? To be part of something bigger?" He took another sip. "I'm sorry, am I talking to much?"

I giggled (and in what forsaken universe did I ever really giggle), "No, it's fine! You're interesting."

He smirked though I don't think he meant to, "Everyone is." His eyes wandered, looking around, looking for something. "We should have coffee more often. I like you."

"You don't even know me." I laughed.

"You are who you have to be."

I tilted my head trying to size up the new man in front of me. "Where do you hide all this personality when you're with the company? And why! Why!" I made sure to look him straight in the eye and even when I sipped on my coffee, I didn't break my gaze.

"Backstage, where it's needed, for now."

III.

It was right after our last December show when I got my first bouquet of roses. There was such a lovely chill in the air, so crisp and welcome. The whole company was happy with the outcome and this last show was our best show yet, what a great closing! everyone said. And there were lots of hugs and congratulations and recklessness going around.

I found him on the outskirts of celebration, holding a large leather bag and smiling and laughing with everyone. What an amazing show! He said I was the balls. I've never been called balls before. The balls, he reiterated. He pulled me aside and insisted that he take me out for coffee again before we all parted ways for Christmas break. Sure, of course. I've missed that you. He checked both sides, like he was crossing the road, and pulled me further aside, behind a rack of large Victorian gowns.

What are we doing here? He looked at me then, and how had I never noticed how his face slanted into dimensions when the light cut it. He looked like a glass sculpture, focused and motionless, deep in thought. And then, right on cue, he broke out of trance (and character) and kissed me.

Better than a bouquet, definitely.

IV.

"She wasn't like that at all! Was she?" It was Christmas day, the 25th of December. The city was almost empty (and rightfully so, everyone was with their families back home). "Your mom," I took a bite of my cookie, "was not a Nazi sympathizer and you definitely don't have Jewish gold hidden away in your attic in a trunk somewhere!"

He chuckled, "Fuck yeah bitch, I'm loaded!" We both laughed. "No yeah, they were left over from the holocaust. The story was that my grandfather grabbed as much of the stuff as he could and ran, ran like a bat out of hell... which would've been appropriate since he was running from the devil, basically." The smell of coffee wafted about us, the low-hanging ceiling lights were especially dim today, and their jazz music played a little slower than usual. Was that what Christmas sounded like?

I nodded, "So, you aren't a Nazi sympathizer."

"My family doesn't understand me." And we burst out laughing; we were so loud that we woke up the barista. "You still haven't told me about your family!" He chimed in after all our laughing. I couldn't be more grateful for the place being empty.

I shook my head, "That isn't fair. You weren't telling the truth! You don't deserve to be hearing my family story when you can't even give me a decent version of yours."

He blinked at me a couple of times, as if expecting a different answer, like he was expecting my story anyway. And then finally, "There is no decent version of any family story! And besides, the truth is boring."

"Try me."

He smirked, "Don't mind if I do." Another fit of laughter.

V.

He tasted like the sea. He tasted like misery and rusting spoons and coral reefs. He felt like waves, rolling waves and raging currents, sweeping and gentle. I could lie here on top of him for the rest of my life, just wasting away as he carried me into the never-ending abyss. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like I was surrounded by water, being lapped up by it, and not minding that I couldn't breathe. We did a lot of breathing, him and I. Deep then shallow, and then labored then easy. 

I could never quite figure him out though. He was so many different people -- his masks never blended well into each other so he wore them in rotation, putting on what skin suited him best. What a magnificent mannequin he was. He knew where to tuck his feathers and how to don his cape, and when he tipped his hat, the audience swooned like they were supposed to. Sometimes as I'd look at him next to me lying there in shambles, his hair still a mess, the outline of his forehead and his nose and his lips and his chin exquisite against the light, I thought maybe I gave myself away too soon. I should've asked for more. But then he, he turns and smiles and gives me this sleepy you're so beautiful and his fingers touch mine and I realize that this is really all the certainty anyone's ever going to get. So I let myself drown.

I jumped off the boat because the water, the water loved me better. 

VI. 
"You could try a few new things!" he said as he held out his hand. The music was so loud and the floor was nearly empty so if I got out there, everyone would definitely see what a colossal embarrassment I was to the entire theater industry basically. I mean, what performer didn't know how to dance? "Please don't leave me standing here like an idiot!" he shouted over the music, his hand still out, his face wearing that incandescent stage smile. 

I laughed, "You look like an axe murderer!" 

He sighed, still smiling, "Yeah, but a sexy axe murderer!" He started shaking his hips now and in his defense, he did look like a sexy axe murderer. "Come on, for fuck's sake! I'm dying!" Defeated, I took what I imagined would be my last breath with my dignity still intact and took his damn hand. What followed next was a blur. Frankly, we were moving too fast I could barely register anything but he was amazing. 

People were on their feet by the time we finished. They were clapping. I had never danced a latino dance in my life. There's a huge argument for me being half steel pole because my hips normally had a problem, well, swaying in general. "See? They loved you," he managed to say in between his haggard breathing. 

"That was incredible; you can do no wrong, wow." It was hard taking hold of myself. I had to try to remember where I was and who I was and sometimes check if I was still breathing.

He shook his head, "Oh, trust me, I've done a lot of wrong."

VII. 
Losing my mind because this is going no where. I wasn't alone, finally, and I thought he liked this too, this state of un-alone we now shared. Sometimes though it turned into this overbearing cloud of togetherness, but I think that may have been from my clear lack of direction and boundaries and I'd find myself in the middle of something I wished I hadn't done. 

He was so kind, always so kind, the sort that I wished I could manage. Do you want to go out for coffee tonight? After the show? He nodded yes, said wait, pulled me by the hand and then kissed me. He said he was so lucky. I smiled and wished I had said it first. 

I'm taking that dance class next week. He smirked and said you're welcome. I hate you, you know that. He said that I would thank him, eventually, and that I was gorgeous when I danced so I shouldn't be worried, but that only went to show how much he hadn't seen. 

He was sprawled out on our couch, with this month's copy of TIME. I sat by my desk and watched him there, being. Would it be strange if I said he ready violently. I don't mean that he tore off the pages and ate them or anything, but I mean, he devoured the words and the essence; he drained it dry and from time to time, he'd look up and explain something to me about the elections or the economy or about the state of some country I hadn't heard of since high school. 

After that bit on stage the first time I'd seen him, this was the only time I'd ever seen him so honest, and bare, and naked. It was better than any of his masks; his mind. 

VIII 

He brushed my hair back, "There's no shame in being crazy. Honestly, I think it's the only way to be." 

I giggled (always with the damn giggling nowadays), "So, you're crazy?" He didn't even bother with an answer. He just smirked and cocked his head and kissed me. He got up out of bed, throwing the sheets off and walking around the room a little though he knew the place like the back of his hand (he had to have by now). "I think I care too much, y'know? I care too much and it makes me crazy. I think knowing me would drive me insane. Sometimes I want to be alone but when I'm alone, it's so quiet, I try to fill all the corners with silent corners with words to make me less lonely." 

"Is that why your room's got whole paragraphs written in the corners?" he laughed. "Geez, is this what you do in your spare time? Seriously?" 

I covered my face with a pillow, "Fuck you! I'm not being pretentious. It makes me feel better, okay." 

"Hey, no judgement. You know what I do when I feel alone? I pretend I'm this successful broadway star and I just landed Les Miserable or Wicked or something, and I'm celebrating with my friends and there's champagne everywhere and women, wall-to-wall," he pauses to look at me and smile, "And I take it all in, this room of sparkly shimmering falseness, and I realize that I'm probably better off as no one." I said nothing. I just looked at him, a bit incredulously, how had I found someone so, I don't know. Was he a romantic, a really sad pessimistic romantic. "You know why?" 

"Oh, right, yeah why?" 

He was by the window now, "Because, people don't pretend for no one. We're real with no one." 

And I hadn't even noticed, but it slipped out in a whisper, "I could be no one." He looked at me, a little shocked but he wore this precious trying smile, like he was sorry but grateful. For all I knew, he was just hungry. I could never tell. I like to think he was thinking I love you. 

IX.

Months and months and months of auditions and performances and applause, a consistent silence.

X.  

I wished him all the best. I can't wait either he said; my heart sank. Where had everything gone. I was hoping for an I'll miss you or Wait for me but nothing. A good gig a couple of cities away. It was better pay for a better part. He so savored the taste of the theater. I guess it didn't matter where or when, because he was always monologue-ready. He was so good with the delivery -- the entire spectrum of human emotion bleeding through his speech, hiding in his vowels, seeping through the h's and s's. 

He belonged out there now, the world needed him, and I was being selfish. I couldn't give him any more than I already had. All the world's a stage and we're merely players; Shakespeare, right. I guess some people, they come to change you and they leave to let you  grow. That makes sense, right? That idiotic babble made sense. God, I can feel the pain in my chest. There's so much aching. Breathing is painful standing next to him -- then again I guess it always was, I just didn't mind so much before. 

I'll never be in my room, look out my window, have a cup of coffee and not see him. He was the subject and the landscape. I'm sorry, he said finally. I kissed him, lightly, and told him he shouldn't be even though I knew he wasn't really but I may have started crying and he might have felt responsible. I wanted him to change the world the way he changed me. 

So they might ache the way I ache, and lose, and be left, and understand.