certainly huge, and she’d hate herself forever if she got him fired over their interlude last summer. It wasn’t his fault—he had tried to resist her advances several times throughout the course of the night without ever actually saying no. He was a perfect gentleman, something she wished she could keep in her life forever.
But there was a chance he could ruin everything for her, too. Theater was her therapy, her entire life. Mommy and Daddy Viggiani liked to pretend their absent methods of parenting didn’t cause any damage, but Lynn didn’t ever feel healed until she touched the stage.
Tapping into all of her suppressed emotions, letting them out in a controlled manner under the pretense of being someone else, was freeing. She had gone from staring down a straight blade in the bathroom to smiling. Theater had literally saved her life.
There was no way she could give it up.
Yet, Matthew was a blood infection gathering under her skin. He was everywhere in her, burning hot, and impossible to draw out. Memories permeated her every moment for the rest of the day; she couldn’t concentrate in economics or Latin, and making it to the final bell was torture. Every time she slipped into the restroom, a fantasy of him sneaking in behind her played out in her mind.
By the end of the day, she had decided to go after Juliet with more force than she’d used for any other audition. She would get those one-on-one sessions with him, and she would make him suck out his poison by whatever means necessary.
Lynn couldn’t be forthright about her feelings for him—her overwhelming desire to strip bare before him and let their souls collide together like sweet poetry. But she could speak to him through her audition.
She picked a monologue from Hamlet , where Ophelia confessed her love for Hamlet to Polonius. It was hugely ambitious, but Lynn needed this chance. Matthew needed to know this performance was just for him.
She locked the door to her room, usually unnecessary in the empty sarcophagus of her giant home, and dimmed the lights. She paced around the room, trying to get into character. Matthew had once told her, “Remember the moment and bring it into the scene.” It would take all of her to bring their moments into the scene, but she had to nail it. For him. For her. For them and whatever future they could have, even if it was just one more night together to say goodbye.
If this worked, maybe it wouldn’t be goodbye. Maybe it would be the kindling to something small and beautiful. Kismet brought him to her classroom. She couldn’t pass that up. So she took a deep breath and read through her lines.
He took me by the wrist and held me hard .
Then goes he to the length of all his arm
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face as he would draw it
Long stay’d he so
At last, a little shaking of mine arm
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being
That done, he lets me go
And with his head over his shoulder turn’d
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes,
For out o’ doors he went without their help
And to the last bended their light on me
Matthew was her Hamlet, she his Ophelia.
Shakespeare wrote some of the most sensual poetry ever written. He knew the lust of a man and a woman entwined through passion. This monologue was written four hundred years ago for them, for her sweet Matthew and their love in the middle of New York City. Ophelia’s words needed to be a part of her, the memories of Hamlet in the dark to be her memories of Matthew in the lamplight.
Lynn was immediately flooded with the smells of the subway, the vanilla-scented candles in his apartment, the heady atmosphere of the theater mixed with Matthew’s cologne. She could feel the softness of his sheets and the roughness of his hands against her bare skin. His fingertips trailing a
But there was a chance he could ruin everything for her, too. Theater was her therapy, her entire life. Mommy and Daddy Viggiani liked to pretend their absent methods of parenting didn’t cause any damage, but Lynn didn’t ever feel healed until she touched the stage.
Tapping into all of her suppressed emotions, letting them out in a controlled manner under the pretense of being someone else, was freeing. She had gone from staring down a straight blade in the bathroom to smiling. Theater had literally saved her life.
There was no way she could give it up.
Yet, Matthew was a blood infection gathering under her skin. He was everywhere in her, burning hot, and impossible to draw out. Memories permeated her every moment for the rest of the day; she couldn’t concentrate in economics or Latin, and making it to the final bell was torture. Every time she slipped into the restroom, a fantasy of him sneaking in behind her played out in her mind.
By the end of the day, she had decided to go after Juliet with more force than she’d used for any other audition. She would get those one-on-one sessions with him, and she would make him suck out his poison by whatever means necessary.
Lynn couldn’t be forthright about her feelings for him—her overwhelming desire to strip bare before him and let their souls collide together like sweet poetry. But she could speak to him through her audition.
She picked a monologue from Hamlet , where Ophelia confessed her love for Hamlet to Polonius. It was hugely ambitious, but Lynn needed this chance. Matthew needed to know this performance was just for him.
She locked the door to her room, usually unnecessary in the empty sarcophagus of her giant home, and dimmed the lights. She paced around the room, trying to get into character. Matthew had once told her, “Remember the moment and bring it into the scene.” It would take all of her to bring their moments into the scene, but she had to nail it. For him. For her. For them and whatever future they could have, even if it was just one more night together to say goodbye.
If this worked, maybe it wouldn’t be goodbye. Maybe it would be the kindling to something small and beautiful. Kismet brought him to her classroom. She couldn’t pass that up. So she took a deep breath and read through her lines.
He took me by the wrist and held me hard .
Then goes he to the length of all his arm
And, with his other hand thus o’er his brow,
He falls to such perusal of my face as he would draw it
Long stay’d he so
At last, a little shaking of mine arm
And thrice his head thus waving up and down,
He rais’d a sigh so piteous and profound
As it did seem to shatter all his bulk
And end his being
That done, he lets me go
And with his head over his shoulder turn’d
He seem’d to find his way without his eyes,
For out o’ doors he went without their help
And to the last bended their light on me
Matthew was her Hamlet, she his Ophelia.
Shakespeare wrote some of the most sensual poetry ever written. He knew the lust of a man and a woman entwined through passion. This monologue was written four hundred years ago for them, for her sweet Matthew and their love in the middle of New York City. Ophelia’s words needed to be a part of her, the memories of Hamlet in the dark to be her memories of Matthew in the lamplight.
Lynn was immediately flooded with the smells of the subway, the vanilla-scented candles in his apartment, the heady atmosphere of the theater mixed with Matthew’s cologne. She could feel the softness of his sheets and the roughness of his hands against her bare skin. His fingertips trailing a
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