me?
But again, I ignored all those questions. You see, when faced with magic, it's easier to accept than you might imagine. I had been waiting for something in my life to change. I had been whining about my life for so long I could barely stand to be with myself. I let the moment envelop me. No worries about stepping onto a stage. No worries about what the future would bring. Only that moment mattered as I stood in some kind of alternate reality, and all I really wanted at that moment was one of those tarts.
With a growling stomach, I lifted my dress's heavy hem and took the stairs as quickly as possible. "Excuse me," I said, pushing through guests, trying to catch the servant. But as hard as I tried, the tray remained just out of reach.
"Excuse me. Sorry," I repeated, having stepped on someone's boot.
"The fault was mine for having placed my foot in the path of a hungry woman."
A masked face stared back at me. Black curly hair cascaded down a dark brown neck and my body temperature shot up ten degrees. "Lady of the Orchard," Benvolio said. How could he possibly recognize me with this freaky hair and mask? But he had. He took a huge risk in speaking to me in public. How did he know I wouldn't turn him in? I might have yelled out, "Montague! A Montague has sneaked into our party!" and Tybalt would have rushed right over and impaled him with his golden codpiece. But of course, I did no such thing.
"Your beauty makes the torches burn brighter," he said.
In Shakespeare's play Romeo delivers that line to Juliet. Maybe Benvolio had stolen the line but I didn't care. I felt kind of woozy, but in a good way. Benvolio reached over my shoulder and whisked two tarts from a passing tray, presenting me with one. "Thanks," I said. He popped the other into his mouth, focusing his sultry gaze entirely on me. It's difficult to eat when someone's staring at you in a lusty way. I nibbled on the pecan-filled crust as if I had no appetite at all. I didn't want bits of food between my teeth.
"I have a dilemma, Mimi from Manhattan. You are a Capulet and yet, I cannot bring myself to hate you."
"I don't hate you either."
He smiled. "Then will you dance with me?"
"Um, okay." You'd think after performing Shakespeare most of my life, I'd be able to express myself a bit more eloquently.
As he led me toward the other dancers, I shoved the rest of the tart in my mouth. I was starving! I grabbed another tart along the way. Benvolio wasn't wearing one of those stupid codpieces, which made me like him even more. On the dance floor, I ended up standing next to Juliet. Paris had scrunched up his face as if in pain.
The ladies formed a center circle, the men formed an outer circle. The steps were easy -- four left, dainty jump jump, four right, dainty jump jump. Benvolio guided me and my nerves melted under his confident touch. Paris coughed as Juliet continued to bombard him with her breath. She leaned close to tell him about her boil. "It's inflamed," she said. "Near to bursting." She giggled, obviously pleased when he actually plugged his nose and came up with an excuse to stop dancing.
Benvolio grabbed my waist and lifted me off the ground, which totally took me by surprise. I giggled like a pathetic airhead. I hoped the next dance would be slower, so I could press against his chest the way I had pressed against Troy's in the Wallingford production. As we smiled at each other, I tried to remember what I knew about Benvolio. He didn't die in the play, so that was a good thing. He was loyal to Romeo and often proved to be the voice of reason. As if reading my mind he said, "I wish Romeo would come and dance. But he insists on moping in the garden."
"Oh, that's too bad." Honestly, I didn't care about Romeo at that moment. The Wallingford burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I was someone else. That moment belonged to me and my Italian hunk. So caught up in my euphoria, I didn't notice what was transpiring on the balcony until
But again, I ignored all those questions. You see, when faced with magic, it's easier to accept than you might imagine. I had been waiting for something in my life to change. I had been whining about my life for so long I could barely stand to be with myself. I let the moment envelop me. No worries about stepping onto a stage. No worries about what the future would bring. Only that moment mattered as I stood in some kind of alternate reality, and all I really wanted at that moment was one of those tarts.
With a growling stomach, I lifted my dress's heavy hem and took the stairs as quickly as possible. "Excuse me," I said, pushing through guests, trying to catch the servant. But as hard as I tried, the tray remained just out of reach.
"Excuse me. Sorry," I repeated, having stepped on someone's boot.
"The fault was mine for having placed my foot in the path of a hungry woman."
A masked face stared back at me. Black curly hair cascaded down a dark brown neck and my body temperature shot up ten degrees. "Lady of the Orchard," Benvolio said. How could he possibly recognize me with this freaky hair and mask? But he had. He took a huge risk in speaking to me in public. How did he know I wouldn't turn him in? I might have yelled out, "Montague! A Montague has sneaked into our party!" and Tybalt would have rushed right over and impaled him with his golden codpiece. But of course, I did no such thing.
"Your beauty makes the torches burn brighter," he said.
In Shakespeare's play Romeo delivers that line to Juliet. Maybe Benvolio had stolen the line but I didn't care. I felt kind of woozy, but in a good way. Benvolio reached over my shoulder and whisked two tarts from a passing tray, presenting me with one. "Thanks," I said. He popped the other into his mouth, focusing his sultry gaze entirely on me. It's difficult to eat when someone's staring at you in a lusty way. I nibbled on the pecan-filled crust as if I had no appetite at all. I didn't want bits of food between my teeth.
"I have a dilemma, Mimi from Manhattan. You are a Capulet and yet, I cannot bring myself to hate you."
"I don't hate you either."
He smiled. "Then will you dance with me?"
"Um, okay." You'd think after performing Shakespeare most of my life, I'd be able to express myself a bit more eloquently.
As he led me toward the other dancers, I shoved the rest of the tart in my mouth. I was starving! I grabbed another tart along the way. Benvolio wasn't wearing one of those stupid codpieces, which made me like him even more. On the dance floor, I ended up standing next to Juliet. Paris had scrunched up his face as if in pain.
The ladies formed a center circle, the men formed an outer circle. The steps were easy -- four left, dainty jump jump, four right, dainty jump jump. Benvolio guided me and my nerves melted under his confident touch. Paris coughed as Juliet continued to bombard him with her breath. She leaned close to tell him about her boil. "It's inflamed," she said. "Near to bursting." She giggled, obviously pleased when he actually plugged his nose and came up with an excuse to stop dancing.
Benvolio grabbed my waist and lifted me off the ground, which totally took me by surprise. I giggled like a pathetic airhead. I hoped the next dance would be slower, so I could press against his chest the way I had pressed against Troy's in the Wallingford production. As we smiled at each other, I tried to remember what I knew about Benvolio. He didn't die in the play, so that was a good thing. He was loyal to Romeo and often proved to be the voice of reason. As if reading my mind he said, "I wish Romeo would come and dance. But he insists on moping in the garden."
"Oh, that's too bad." Honestly, I didn't care about Romeo at that moment. The Wallingford burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I was someone else. That moment belonged to me and my Italian hunk. So caught up in my euphoria, I didn't notice what was transpiring on the balcony until
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