slowly.” And Oscar Wilde regarded theatre to be the greatest of all art forms, calling it the most immediate way one person can share with another what it is to be human.
Over the course of my interaction with Quintus I had exposed a little more each time, spun more languidly. And in that regard I can continue, because that is acting. I can be that kind of human. Real life—the kind of life Q wants with me—requires a good deal more clothing and hypersonic spiraling so that we are never moving slow enough for anyone to find out just how vulnerable we are.
I have love for all of my clients, but what I felt for Q was deeper. It pained me when he ended our affair, however, it was truly for the best. I’m not sure if I know how to operate without stage directions. What’s most puzzling is that I know Quintus is not acting, was never acting, but has still managed to spin before me, slowly, sensually, nakedly. He’s been a different kind of human with me. It’s a contradiction I can’t seem to get my mind around, don’t understand the script for.
“Q…” I say softly, trying my level best to not offend. “I can’t give you what—”
“What I wante d then is not what I want now.”
“Oh?” He’s acting now. I smirk a little knowing I’ve managed to knock him off-kilter as much as he does me.
“I’m lying.”
Naked again.
He covers my hand with his. “I took a risk and couldn’t handle when you didn’t feel the same.”
He’ll never know just how wrong he is.
“But I’d rather have you, in any way I can, than to not have you at all.”
I blink. Twice. Quickly.
Once again, I’m out of lines. A glance off-stage affirms what I already know: there is no understudy, and no crewmember around to whisper the next bit to move this scene along, so I sit for a moment, with my costar and audience staring at me, waiting.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“About us?”
I shake my head. “There can be no us , Q, not in the way I think you’d like.”
His dark face distorts. “Why not, Rosie? You think I’d judge you? I haven’t once in our years together. I understand a thing or two about callings, don’t I?”
He does. Years of conversation have taught me a good deal about Q. He was groomed from a young age to take over the family import/export business. But he’s a natural entrepreneur with a love for wine, so it broke his parents’ hearts when he decided to step out on his own and buy a failing vineyard in his homeland. That said vineyard now produces the best Corsican wine the world has ever tasted does little to soothe the sting.
Nevertheless, if I give in to his desires I’m not sure how long things would last between us.
“I’m a doxy , Quintus—”
“I understand that,” he interjects, “and I understand why.”
“Do you?” I don’t intend it to be sarcastic, but it is. Q…unsettles me.
He smiles, continues in that gentle way of his. “We are all called to do something, and this calling is yours. I’m not asking you to change for me, but…you’d be nice to come home to.”
Sounds nice, doesn’t it? But… “Why, Q? Why me and not some… normal woman who goes to a normal job and—”
“You’re not normal?” he jokes.
“I’m serious. Why not someone who’s job won’t break your heart in the long run?”
“You won’t break my heart.”
Believing him is tempting, but it would kill me if I hurt him. I take a shuddering breath. “Why?”
“Because…” He struggles a moment with what he wants to say, pins me with that piercing stare. “Because I see you, Rosie. I’ve always seen you.”
Another perfect line I don’t have a response for. It makes my heart race. But the scene’s going off track.
“I’m not the Rosie you pretend me to be,” I snort, the southern sass creeping into my voice. “Not the take-home-to-ya-momma type, am I, Q? You don’t judge me now, but
Over the course of my interaction with Quintus I had exposed a little more each time, spun more languidly. And in that regard I can continue, because that is acting. I can be that kind of human. Real life—the kind of life Q wants with me—requires a good deal more clothing and hypersonic spiraling so that we are never moving slow enough for anyone to find out just how vulnerable we are.
I have love for all of my clients, but what I felt for Q was deeper. It pained me when he ended our affair, however, it was truly for the best. I’m not sure if I know how to operate without stage directions. What’s most puzzling is that I know Quintus is not acting, was never acting, but has still managed to spin before me, slowly, sensually, nakedly. He’s been a different kind of human with me. It’s a contradiction I can’t seem to get my mind around, don’t understand the script for.
“Q…” I say softly, trying my level best to not offend. “I can’t give you what—”
“What I wante d then is not what I want now.”
“Oh?” He’s acting now. I smirk a little knowing I’ve managed to knock him off-kilter as much as he does me.
“I’m lying.”
Naked again.
He covers my hand with his. “I took a risk and couldn’t handle when you didn’t feel the same.”
He’ll never know just how wrong he is.
“But I’d rather have you, in any way I can, than to not have you at all.”
I blink. Twice. Quickly.
Once again, I’m out of lines. A glance off-stage affirms what I already know: there is no understudy, and no crewmember around to whisper the next bit to move this scene along, so I sit for a moment, with my costar and audience staring at me, waiting.
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“About us?”
I shake my head. “There can be no us , Q, not in the way I think you’d like.”
His dark face distorts. “Why not, Rosie? You think I’d judge you? I haven’t once in our years together. I understand a thing or two about callings, don’t I?”
He does. Years of conversation have taught me a good deal about Q. He was groomed from a young age to take over the family import/export business. But he’s a natural entrepreneur with a love for wine, so it broke his parents’ hearts when he decided to step out on his own and buy a failing vineyard in his homeland. That said vineyard now produces the best Corsican wine the world has ever tasted does little to soothe the sting.
Nevertheless, if I give in to his desires I’m not sure how long things would last between us.
“I’m a doxy , Quintus—”
“I understand that,” he interjects, “and I understand why.”
“Do you?” I don’t intend it to be sarcastic, but it is. Q…unsettles me.
He smiles, continues in that gentle way of his. “We are all called to do something, and this calling is yours. I’m not asking you to change for me, but…you’d be nice to come home to.”
Sounds nice, doesn’t it? But… “Why, Q? Why me and not some… normal woman who goes to a normal job and—”
“You’re not normal?” he jokes.
“I’m serious. Why not someone who’s job won’t break your heart in the long run?”
“You won’t break my heart.”
Believing him is tempting, but it would kill me if I hurt him. I take a shuddering breath. “Why?”
“Because…” He struggles a moment with what he wants to say, pins me with that piercing stare. “Because I see you, Rosie. I’ve always seen you.”
Another perfect line I don’t have a response for. It makes my heart race. But the scene’s going off track.
“I’m not the Rosie you pretend me to be,” I snort, the southern sass creeping into my voice. “Not the take-home-to-ya-momma type, am I, Q? You don’t judge me now, but
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