Counterintuitive
Auditions are over and they stumble out into the dark, weak with the release of tension. They have been brave, getting up on that stage and belting out songs, even to a mostly-empty theatre. They both know how brave they have been.
He lights up a cigarette and she drapes herself over the back of the car, waiting for him. She is saying something scathing to make him laugh, but she is thinking, as usual, of kissing him. They are always making each other laugh, except in the moments when they stop to tell each other serious secrets. There is an intensity between them. She is starting to believe that kissing is only a matter of time.
He is not her type at all. He has a neatly trimmed beard and is built like a teddy bear. He has gained weight recently and none of his clothes quite fit. He keeps his hoodie partly zipped to try to disguise his soft belly. He doesn't realise that this only emphasises it. This vanity makes her feel tender towards him. She wants to touch him gently and make him believe that every part of him is desirable. Every part of him is desirable.
She looks up at the stars. It looks as if they're spinning overhead, always, while she and he are safe on solid ground, though she knows it isn't so. Everything is moving, turning, changing. Some of these stars don't even exist anymore.
He smokes quickly, because she is waiting and because he is supposed to have quit. He is a total skid who loves musical theatre and putting himself down. She leans against the car despite the chill of the dew on metal against her back in the dark parking lot while he hurriedly huffs on a smoke, crossing her boots and her arms, and thinking I'm falling in love with this man.
She is not sure she can be brave enough for this. He throws down the cigarette butt and she asks, "Are you ready?"
He lights up a cigarette and she drapes herself over the back of the car, waiting for him. She is saying something scathing to make him laugh, but she is thinking, as usual, of kissing him. They are always making each other laugh, except in the moments when they stop to tell each other serious secrets. There is an intensity between them. She is starting to believe that kissing is only a matter of time.
He is not her type at all. He has a neatly trimmed beard and is built like a teddy bear. He has gained weight recently and none of his clothes quite fit. He keeps his hoodie partly zipped to try to disguise his soft belly. He doesn't realise that this only emphasises it. This vanity makes her feel tender towards him. She wants to touch him gently and make him believe that every part of him is desirable. Every part of him is desirable.
She looks up at the stars. It looks as if they're spinning overhead, always, while she and he are safe on solid ground, though she knows it isn't so. Everything is moving, turning, changing. Some of these stars don't even exist anymore.
He smokes quickly, because she is waiting and because he is supposed to have quit. He is a total skid who loves musical theatre and putting himself down. She leans against the car despite the chill of the dew on metal against her back in the dark parking lot while he hurriedly huffs on a smoke, crossing her boots and her arms, and thinking I'm falling in love with this man.
She is not sure she can be brave enough for this. He throws down the cigarette butt and she asks, "Are you ready?"