Sunday and Monday when the theater is dark, and let you know what I think.” And then he was struck by an idea. “Would you like to go for a cup of coffee and tell me about it for a few minutes?” he offered. “As long as you waited for me, you can explain what you tried to accomplish, so I don’t miss any of your intent.” Abby knew as well as he did that the play shouldn’t need an interpretation from the playwright, it should speak for itself. But she didn’t say anything as she continued painting the scenery, and pretended not to listen.
The girl instantly accepted his offer, and they left the theater a few minutes later, deep in conversation about her play, as she explained its message to him. And for a minute, Abby felt sick. She had heard it all before. He had said it all to her in the past three years. And she had seen him flirt with other young girls, actresses they auditioned, or young directors seeking work. She never took it seriously, or felt threatened by it, but this time, for some unknown reason, she did. The girl looked so innocent but determined, and he was so intense when he talked to her.
He came back an hour later, without the girl, and explained the meeting to Abby, so she wouldn’t worry. He didn’t want her to be upset.
“Her father has a shitload of money, and is willing to back any play someone will put on for her. I’m sure she can’t write to save her life, but we can use the money, and if her rich daddy is willing to help us out, I’ll read damn near anything, to keep our theater on its feet. It can’t hurt.” At least it explained why he was willing to talk to her, and appeared so interested in her play. “Sometimes you have to prostitute yourself a little, for the common good. Not like your parents, for the masses, which is selling out in its lowest form, but angels come into our lives sometimes, and her father may give us just the kind of backing we need.”
Abby sighed as she listened to him, wanting to believe that what he said about the reason for reading the play was true. She wasn’t entirely certain of it, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And he loved the devil she had painted that afternoon, although most of the red paint was on her shirt and in her hair. He asked her then if she would come to his place that night, after he had dinner with a friend who was having woman troubles he wanted to talk about. “Would midnight be too late?” he asked, caressing her neck, and letting his hand drift to her breast, as she melted at his touch.
“No, it’s fine.” She would be half asleep by then, but the prospect of curling up in his arms, sated by their lovemaking, was too tempting to resist. He was an artful lover who understood women’s bodies well, and the sex they shared was like a drug, and would make her forget everything else, the long delay waiting for him to produce her play, and even the little rich girl who had waited in the theater for him all afternoon. “I’ll come over at midnight,” she said in a soft voice as he kissed her.
And then she remembered that some of her roommates were thinking of dropping by Max’s restaurant on Saturday night and wondered if he wanted to join them after the performance. He never said that he didn’t like her roommates, but she sensed it easily. And it was mutual. He avoided them whenever possible, and when she extended the invitation to him for Saturday, he looked vague.
“The performance will take too much out of me. I won’t be up to a lot of people and a noisy restaurant. But thanks anyway. Another time?” She nodded, and didn’t insist. She knew he gave a lot to the plays they put on. “You go with them, though, if you want to. I’ll just go home and go to bed.” The invitation had been casual for anyone with no plans. But their Sunday-night dinners at the loft were a weekly tradition, and everyone came.
“Do you want to have dinner at the apartment on Sunday night?” she asked
The girl instantly accepted his offer, and they left the theater a few minutes later, deep in conversation about her play, as she explained its message to him. And for a minute, Abby felt sick. She had heard it all before. He had said it all to her in the past three years. And she had seen him flirt with other young girls, actresses they auditioned, or young directors seeking work. She never took it seriously, or felt threatened by it, but this time, for some unknown reason, she did. The girl looked so innocent but determined, and he was so intense when he talked to her.
He came back an hour later, without the girl, and explained the meeting to Abby, so she wouldn’t worry. He didn’t want her to be upset.
“Her father has a shitload of money, and is willing to back any play someone will put on for her. I’m sure she can’t write to save her life, but we can use the money, and if her rich daddy is willing to help us out, I’ll read damn near anything, to keep our theater on its feet. It can’t hurt.” At least it explained why he was willing to talk to her, and appeared so interested in her play. “Sometimes you have to prostitute yourself a little, for the common good. Not like your parents, for the masses, which is selling out in its lowest form, but angels come into our lives sometimes, and her father may give us just the kind of backing we need.”
Abby sighed as she listened to him, wanting to believe that what he said about the reason for reading the play was true. She wasn’t entirely certain of it, but she was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And he loved the devil she had painted that afternoon, although most of the red paint was on her shirt and in her hair. He asked her then if she would come to his place that night, after he had dinner with a friend who was having woman troubles he wanted to talk about. “Would midnight be too late?” he asked, caressing her neck, and letting his hand drift to her breast, as she melted at his touch.
“No, it’s fine.” She would be half asleep by then, but the prospect of curling up in his arms, sated by their lovemaking, was too tempting to resist. He was an artful lover who understood women’s bodies well, and the sex they shared was like a drug, and would make her forget everything else, the long delay waiting for him to produce her play, and even the little rich girl who had waited in the theater for him all afternoon. “I’ll come over at midnight,” she said in a soft voice as he kissed her.
And then she remembered that some of her roommates were thinking of dropping by Max’s restaurant on Saturday night and wondered if he wanted to join them after the performance. He never said that he didn’t like her roommates, but she sensed it easily. And it was mutual. He avoided them whenever possible, and when she extended the invitation to him for Saturday, he looked vague.
“The performance will take too much out of me. I won’t be up to a lot of people and a noisy restaurant. But thanks anyway. Another time?” She nodded, and didn’t insist. She knew he gave a lot to the plays they put on. “You go with them, though, if you want to. I’ll just go home and go to bed.” The invitation had been casual for anyone with no plans. But their Sunday-night dinners at the loft were a weekly tradition, and everyone came.
“Do you want to have dinner at the apartment on Sunday night?” she asked
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