The sound must be loud because Joey startles, her head jerking toward me, her eyes spinning with alarm and fear.
I wave my hand out in front of me. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I saw the light and open door and didn’t realize you were out here.”
I look at her bewildered gaze and then glance down to what’s in her hands. She’s holding my script.
When she realizes that I’ve noticed what she’s holding, she tosses it down on the small patio table as if it’s on fire and burned her hands.
“I, uh…” she stammers, looking guilty over having read my unedited first draft that I’ve just finished writing.
Tilting my head, I take a few steps toward her, picking up the manuscript she last touched.
“Were you reading this out here in the dark?”
The balcony light outside is really just there for ambience and decoration, not at all good for eyesight. It’s barely enough to illuminate the sight of her ducking her chin in what appears to be guilty embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to read your work without your permission. I just couldn’t sleep and saw it lying there on the coffee table and I picked it up. I was curious.”
Taking the seat next to her – the one she vacated earlier tonight – I flip through the pages I have dogeared for corrections and edits. I’ve been working on this play for the last three months in hopes of submitting it to the theater workshop for this summer’s showcase.
Every summer this local theater company, Acting OUT, puts on a workshop for beginners. Beginning playwrights and actors and actresses who want to try their hand at live stage theater. They select from entries statewide. They do this to encourage developing talent within the local artist community.
Last year I was a judge and decided this year was the year I’d submit my work. I have no real hope of winning, but it gave me something to pour my heart and soul into after my breakup.
No one else has read any part of this play yet. I’m not sure if I should be upset by the fact that Joey read it without permission or be interested in hearing her critique.
I decide to go with curious. “Well?”
My palms get a little damp at the prospect of her vocalizing her editorial review. While she’s not in the biz and may not know the inside out of the craft, she’s still a potential audience member. And her opinion is valued. In fact, I’m at the edge of my seat wanting to know what she thinks.
“That’s a deep subject.”
I cock my head with confusion. My play isn’t deep, at all. As a matter of fact, it’s supposed to be light-hearted and comedic. If she thinks it’s heavy, then I haven’t done it justice.
I bow my head in despair.
When she laughs and my head pops up to see her grinning.
“Well…as in, a deep well. Get it?”
I laugh at her attempt at humor.
“Har-dee-har-har. Aren’t you just the funny one.”
She shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a pretty funny girl sometimes.”
Joey holds her hand out in silent request for the script. I give it back to her as our fingers briefly touch. She has short cropped nails and the idea that she’d dig them into my ass as I fucked her sends a sharp call to my dick. Which, less face it, was already on high alert from earlier.
Clearing my impure thoughts, I casually take her in as she flips through a few pages. Her strawberry curls have been pulled up into a messy bun, her face make-up free and the smell of apricot lingers around her. My fingers itch to run wild in her hair, tugging it a little while I capture her mouth with mine.
She taps one of those fingers on the page, drawing my attention back to the play.
“This scene,” she comments, verifying the location for me with a point of her finger. “Act One scene three. This is pure gold. Where Silvia dumps the ice bucket over Chester’s head after he ran over her tomatoes with his wheel barrow? So funny. I’d love to see this happen in live action.”
I snort at the recollection of the scene. My play is set in a fictitious small-town in Illinois with vague similarities to my actual hometown. It’s two neighbors who don’t get along in a rom-com alaWhen Harry Met Sally, but then wind up falling for each other.
“Yeah, I do enjoy these characters. They are pretty funny,” I nod in agreement. “I just don’t know if this will work on stage or not. There’s a lot of nuances to the script that may only work on paper. I guess it’s yet to be seen. And maybe it won’t ever be seen, who knows.”
Joey slaps the bound manuscript on the table and stands abruptly, hands on her hips in indignation.
