I Loved You Wednesday by David Marlow Page A

anything dumb like that again. Don’t worry. Part of the joy of life has been learning to live with being unhappy most of the time.” “That’s the spirit. Merry Christmas!”
    “Bah. Humbug!”
    I call Chris again on Christmas Eve early in the evening, before leaving for the theater.
    No answer.
    Performing a ten-year-old dated domestic comedy in a half-filled theater in Florida on a balmy evening is not my favorite way of passing Christmas Eve. But if, as a result, my performance this Yule is a little down, it’s Tony Award material compared to the sluggish rendering Linda—that is, Corie—is passing off.
    We can both be grateful there is no one in the house who knows any better, though. The response is as enthusiastic as ever. Senility has its place in theater!
    After the performance, once makeup has been removed, Corie and I go out for a late dinner and then up to her room with a very inferior bottle of champagne.
    Corie puts on the television, which is wise since it’s not scintillating conversation that glues our relationship.
    I call Chris again around one, but still no answer. I am now registering mild concern. Fairly drunk, Corie and I fall asleep somewhere in the middle of whichever version of A Christmas Carol is being screened on the tube.
    The following morning, Christmas Day, around eleven, I finally get through to Chris. “Hi!”
    “Steve!”
    “Merry Christmas!”
    “Merry Christmas to you, sweetheart.”
    “I’ve been calling.”
    “When?”
    “All last night.”
    “I was out.”
    “Yeah?”
    “A bunch of us went for drinks after rehearsal—” “Oh.”
    “—and then I went home with Harold.”
    “Harold who?”
    “Harold. You know Harold.”
    “No, I don’t know Harold.”
    “Harold what’s-his-name.... The kid in the company....
    I told you about Harold. Dumb. Cute. Chubby. Strange.”
    I have no idea who she’s talking about. “Oh, yes. That Harold!”
    “Right!”
    “How is Harold?”
    “Dull.”
    “Oh?”
    “Wants to be mothered.”
    “Not your scene.”
    “Not my scene. All I got was bed and bored.”
    “Why’d you do it?”
    “What?”
    “Go home with him?”
    “Are you kidding? I’m glad I got someone as decent as him. The way I felt about returning to an empty apartment on Christmas Eve, without you, without Bradley, anyone not holding a gun to my forehead would have proved appealing.”
    “And?”
    “And nothing. We went out for drinks. Everyone at the table had to run off someplace except cute-even-if-a-little-dumpy Harold. And I’d just downed my third vodka martini, so he was getting cuter and less dumpy by the ounce.”
    “And?”
    “And so I was very coquettish and genteelly asked if he’d like to ball.”
    “And?”
    “And he said it sounded like a good idea, despite the fact he doesn’t like forward women, and then asked if it was okay to go back to his place and not mine because he had been so busy this morning before rehearsal he hadn’t had time to feed his parakeet.”
    “So?”
    “So we did.”
    “Did what?”
    “Went to his apartment and fed his parakeet.” “And?”
    “And what?”
    “How was he?”
    “Blue.”
    “I don’t mean the parakeet, bird-brain, I mean Harold!”
    “Oh, Harold! Right, I’d rather talk about the parakeet.”
    “Why?”
    “More depth.”
    “Why?”
    “Premature.”
    “Harold or the bird?”
    “Harold. I don’t know about the bird. I didn’t make it with him. But Harold came all over his jockey shorts while we were getting undressed.”
    “No!”
    “Yes. Hadn’t laid a finger on me yet.”
    “I’m surprised he doesn’t charge for that kind of stud service.”
    “We must know each other too well. That’s exactly what I told Harold.”
    “Good girl. Then what happened?”
    “Then we got into bed and watched A Christmas Carol”
    “So did we.”
    “Small world.”
    “Which version?”
    “I’m not sure. I started crying, and Harold got all upset.”
    “I don’t think I like