The Actress and the Writer. Part III
It was easy for Nila to see in Joseph an aspect of every male character she was ever asked to pull near or push away. As a result, Joseph had to adapt to every new role and plot curve. Their home was an extension of the stage, another scene in which to explore the depth and range of the people they played.
“Where’s dinner?” Joseph half-joked, unaware that she was no longer playing a cannibal chef, but a lesbian outcast that month. Nila picked up a plate and threw it at his head.
Joseph could have died. He left the hospital with a concussion and eight stitches. At work he wrote about the role of rage in Olympic women’s discus. He returned home and ducked immediately.
“Very funny. I’m sorry, baby. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don’t know what happened. You just embodied everything that drives my character to flee society and sail the ocean on her raft of crucifixion wood,” Nila explained.
“You’re not a crucified lesbian, Nila.”
She knew that their relationship was a push and pull dance, and that an errant plate signalled her turn to tug.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m tormented by patriarchal structures right now. You know how I get caught up in my roles.”
They made dinner together. She prepared a salad; he fried vegetables and heated left-over chicken. They ate abstractedly, small talk penetrated by silence. He cleared the table, carried dirty dishes to the sink.
After dinner she approached him shyly, stretched out her arms and brought his waist tight toward hers.
“Ever fuck a lesbian?”
She tilted her head and smiled apologetically, seductively.
“Look, I can’t promise not to be difficult, but I can promise never to throw a plate at you again,” she said, slipping out of her jeans.
She un-caped him and sat on top of him demurely – ritual of apology. He swung her body below his – ritual of forgiveness. She focused on the pattern of the stitches, shuddered at the physical pain she had inflicted.
“Harder, baby. Go harder.”
She moaned while grasping his forehead, tracing the criss-cross with her hand.
Again, Nila returned home an outcast lesbian. And again, Joseph resorted to his writing, a new piece entitled Forgiveness after War: Shaking Hands in Sport. That night, unable to sleep, he sat at his laptop and typed “Now Is Past” in different combinations across three filled pages. He sat shirtless, black cape fluttering in the winter breeze. Nila pretended not to wake; she observed the dance of his fingers, the guillotine motion of left thumb toward spacebar.
“Where’s dinner?” Joseph half-joked, unaware that she was no longer playing a cannibal chef, but a lesbian outcast that month. Nila picked up a plate and threw it at his head.
Joseph could have died. He left the hospital with a concussion and eight stitches. At work he wrote about the role of rage in Olympic women’s discus. He returned home and ducked immediately.
“Very funny. I’m sorry, baby. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I don’t know what happened. You just embodied everything that drives my character to flee society and sail the ocean on her raft of crucifixion wood,” Nila explained.
“You’re not a crucified lesbian, Nila.”
She knew that their relationship was a push and pull dance, and that an errant plate signalled her turn to tug.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m tormented by patriarchal structures right now. You know how I get caught up in my roles.”
They made dinner together. She prepared a salad; he fried vegetables and heated left-over chicken. They ate abstractedly, small talk penetrated by silence. He cleared the table, carried dirty dishes to the sink.
After dinner she approached him shyly, stretched out her arms and brought his waist tight toward hers.
“Ever fuck a lesbian?”
She tilted her head and smiled apologetically, seductively.
“Look, I can’t promise not to be difficult, but I can promise never to throw a plate at you again,” she said, slipping out of her jeans.
She un-caped him and sat on top of him demurely – ritual of apology. He swung her body below his – ritual of forgiveness. She focused on the pattern of the stitches, shuddered at the physical pain she had inflicted.
“Harder, baby. Go harder.”
She moaned while grasping his forehead, tracing the criss-cross with her hand.
Again, Nila returned home an outcast lesbian. And again, Joseph resorted to his writing, a new piece entitled Forgiveness after War: Shaking Hands in Sport. That night, unable to sleep, he sat at his laptop and typed “Now Is Past” in different combinations across three filled pages. He sat shirtless, black cape fluttering in the winter breeze. Nila pretended not to wake; she observed the dance of his fingers, the guillotine motion of left thumb toward spacebar.
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