Acts of Love by Judith Michael

for the videos?”
    â€œCan you make it nine?”
    â€œNine? Well, sure. Just don’t make a habit of it. Okay with you, Kent?”
    â€œSure. God, I’ve finished my run in the park by nine o’clock; that’s halfway to noon.”
    Luke turned to the stage where Rachel stood. “Thank you. We liked it very much. Tommy will talk to you about it.” He went to the side aisle and up the five steps that led to the stage, then ducked into the wings and made his way to the stage door. Outside, he blinked in the sunlight. Daylight. We forget what it looks like.
    Fritz Palfrey was standing beside a table in the window of Orso, waiting. “I’m having wine, something red. You?”
    â€œFine.”
    He waved to the waitress. “Luke, listen, I know she’s hot right now, but listen, I can’t work with her.”
    â€œYou’re talking about Marilyn Marks?”
    â€œWho else? Look, I’ve got a grandmother just like Lena, she’s in her eighties and I know what kind of apartment she likes and this set Marilyn designed, it’s not a grandmother’s apartment.”
    â€œYou mean it’s not your grandmother’s,” Luke said gently.
    â€œGrandmothers in their eighties like things normal and . . . sort of dull. Not dramatic. I know what Lena is like, Luke, believe me. She’s just like my grandmother.”
    And that’s one of the brilliant aspects of Kent’s play; everyone sees Lena as his or her grandmother. But no play is a true mirror of real life; theater compresses and exaggerates real life to create its own universe. And Fritz knows that.
    The waitress brought their wine and Fritz held his up to the light. “Nice color. So what do you think?”
    â€œHave you seen Marilyn’s final drawings?”
    â€œHow could I? She’s only done preliminaries. I want to head her off at the pass.”
    â€œLet’s not do that. I don’t pass judgement until I see drawings and a model.”
    â€œLuke, I can’t work with that set.”
    â€œLet’s wait until we see the model.” He pushed back his chair. “We’ll meet with Marilyn and props and costumes next week—Thursday or Friday around three—let me know what works for everybody. And Fritz.” He put his hand on Fritz’s shoulder. “I appreciate your ideas. You’re the best stage manager in the business and I promise you we’ll work together on this.”
    â€œRight, well, we’ll see what happens. You didn’t finish your wine.”
    â€œI’m going to a friend’s dress rehearsal tonight; I have to stay awake.”
    He made his way through the late-afternoon crowds to Fifth Avenue, and turned uptown, feeling the slight coolness of shade trees when he came to the cobblestone walk along the low brick wall bordering Central Park. He dodged Rollerbladers and women pushing strollers and tried to find a steady pace between people coming to a halt for passionate debate, lovers walking in step and making way for no one, crowds leafing through used books stacked on folding tables, and children chasing an errant whiffle ball. Finally he crossed to the other side of the street, close to the buildings, where there were no crowds. By the time he reached his building he was perspiring and frustrated—he never had enough time out of doors and when he did it seemed, lately, that it was usually uncomfortable—and he bypassed his library to go straight to his bedroom, where he stripped and stepped into his shower.
    It was not until midnight that he finally sat on the leather couch in his library and stretched out his legs. He had taken two telephone calls from Kent, a call from Marilyn Marks and one from Monte, he had taken Tricia to the dress rehearsal of his friend’s play and then to dinner with the playwright, director and crew, and then had told Tricia, with some truth, that he still had work to