“A man’s perspective.”
He lowered his right eyebrow.
“A man with your… experience in particular.” A flush was crawling up her neck, and he decided to show mercy.
“It does not signify. I could read the scene this evening–”
“Oh would you mind ever so much to read it now. You see, I have it right here, and I was hoping to make edits this evening so that we could practice it tomorrow and be ready for–”
Gregory held out his hand. Rarely did Mary expel so many words and with such rapidity, so he again extended mercy. “Show me the scene.”
With that, Mary went over to the side of the stage, tucked a few sheets of foolscap underneath her arm and then handed them to Gregory. He detected a slight hesitance as she transitioned the sheets, but he couldn’t catch her eyes.
After a few minutes he began to understand Mary’s timidness. He was reading about a fight between the opera singer and main character. Taking place in his bedroom.
Gregory realized three things at this moment. One: Mary knew of his assignations with the beautiful actress to whom he had given her conge about eight months prior. Two: she was asking his advice about it. Three: he was indeed embarrassed.
Contrary to strong arguments in his defense and a past neglect of them, he fought an encroaching blush. He had nothing of which to be ashamed. Despite the fact that mistresses were tolerated, even acceptable if kept discreet, they were not talked about in front of women. But this was a play. It was not about his real life.
Mary looked up into Gregory’s eyes again. He detected embarrassment in her as well, but then he also noticed her standing tall with her chin poking out ever so defiantly, almost asking him if it was acceptable for her to challenge him so directly.
This was Mary. Sweet, shy, little Mary. The little girl writing nonsensical plays about mermaids. Yet this was also the woman who had burned against his body. The woman with whom he would like to entangle his body again, if only to provoke her to more passion.
He pulled his mind to the present and stared back into her eyes. This was Mary. He stamped down his fantasies and quelled the ache inside him.
“What would you like to,” he cleared his throat, “know?”
She must have taken his question as consent to challenge him with questions. She stepped closer and began talking. He didn’t hear anything as her breast lightly brushed against his forearm.
“Do you agree?”
He looked down into her eyes now full of excitement. He strained to push words together in a coherent sentence and made out with, “Where?” He was still titillated by the softness of her breast and was remembering the silkiness of her soft creamy jaw when he forced himself to tear his gaze from her lips and follow her finger now running down the foolscap in his hands.
As her finger moved down the sheet, her palm swept over his wrist, and he sucked in his breath. He couldn’t bear it. He leaned forward an inch to inhale the scent of cinnamon from her hair.
She stopped talking. He stopped breathing.
He quickly looked down and fought for all his worth to make sense of the words above her fingers.
He could only see several weak oaths in sequence, horse feathers, merciful heavens.
“Why is she saying these things?”
“Did you read the scene?”
“Yes.” That wasn’t quite a lie. He did read it. He just hadn’t retained what his eyes read.
“Well, why wouldn’t she say those words?”
He started to piece it together. The opera singer and the main character were fighting. She was upset about him flirting with another woman and was hoping, beyond all realistic expectations, to get married.
“First of all, she wouldn’t say these words. They’re too tame.”
“Yes, but I want this play to be performed in front of large audiences, so I still want to maintain some propriety.”
He paused. He knew she had ambitions. “I concede your point, for now. But it would be worth considering who your audience will be and what they would expect from a play.” He could see Mary was taking offense.
“Do you want my opinion?”
