Thoughts While Having Sex

by Stephanie Lehmann

"I want to do it again and I want you to really try screaming out the window."

  She said it like she was a director and she was trying to adjust my performance. "But Melanie wouldn't scream." In real life Diana didn't even get me to the window.

  "But I want you to scream."

  I looked at her. I looked at the window. I could not imagine screaming so her actual neighbors, like that man below with the dogs, would hear.

  Kelly jumped back into the script.

  Julia: "You have to think positively if you want to get anywhere in this world. Now I want you to repeat after me."

  She stuck her head out the window again and yelled.

  Julia: "I am ambitious!"

  I started to giggle. "No!"

  "Go ahead!"

  I tried, but it got mangled with more giggles.

  Melanie: "I am ambitious!"

  "Try again," Kelly said. "And mean it."

  I forced myself not to laugh.

  Melanie: "And I deserve to succeed!"

  "Louder."

  I screamed at the top of my lungs. "And I deserve to succeed!"

  Kelly yelled after me. "And I deserve to succeed!"

  We screamed it together, in unison, and that time I really yelled. "And I deserve to succeed!"

  "Excellent!" Kelly said. "I did it!"

  "And God didn't strike you dead."

  "Not yet, at least," I said, looking nervously up towards the sky.

  "Anyway," she said, closing the window, "I have to get going."

  She had to go? Where? "I thought we were going to have dinner."

  "That's the line, silly."

  "Oh. Right. Your acting is so natural." I felt embarrassed. I actually blushed.

  She laughed. "Are you hungry?"

  "Sort of."

  "So let's eat."

  "Don't you want to finish the first act?"

  "I'm hungry. And it smells so good."

  It did smell good.

  "We'll try to be good and do more after we eat."

  "Well, okay, if you're sure."

  "Come, sit down. I made your favorite," she said, going to stir the pot on the stove. "Spaghetti with sweet Italian sausage."

  I bristled. "Very funny." This was a line from my play, when Julia cooks for Melanie.

  "But I did. I hope you do like it."

  I was tempted to say I didn't just to prove that I made things up. But I really did like Italian sausage, and, ultimately, I didn't want to hurt her feelings. It truly seemed like she did it to please me. "I do, but I like a lot of other things, too."

  "Don't get all defensive. So you like Italian sausage and your sister killed herself. Two things in the play that are true to life."

  She had a grin on her face, but I didn't find it funny. "You seem intent on ferreting out everything in the play that's based on something real. It's annoying."

  "Relax. Have some wine."

  I glared at the glass as she poured.

  "Sweetie," she said, "it doesn't matter to me how much of the play is real and how much you made up."

  "Then stop trying to trap me."

  "It's not a trap," she said, pouring herself wine.

  "Then why do you get that look on your face, like you caught me?!"

  "You're just imagining."

  "No I'm not!"

  "Would you chill out?"

  Drop it, drop it, I told myself while sipping the wine. I didn't want to argue. But it was annoying: tonight was the night I was supposed to finally find out about her secrets, yet it kept being all about mine.

  She went to get the noodles out of the boiling water. The spaghetti sauce was making my mouth water.

  "You're right," I said. "I'm being overly sensitive."

  "Well I'm sorry if I stepped on your toes."

  "It's okay. Forget it." I took another sip of wine. So did she.

  "So," I asked, "you work as a bartender?"

  "Ummm."

  "Where?"

  "This bar called Wallpaper down in Soho."

  "Must be interesting."

  "You think so?"

  "The guys must try to pick up on you all the time, right?"

  "No."

  "Really?"

  "I don't know." She seemed annoyed. The same way it annoyed me when she was nailing down what was or was not made up in my play. "I suppose they would, if I let them. But I'm not standing around flirting like you think. It's hard work."

  "But it must get slow sometimes, and then you're just standing there while some drunk slob is staring at you."

  "They can stare all they want."

  "It doesn't creep you out?"

  "You're the one who doesn't like people looking at you."

  She'd done it again. That was in the play.

  "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't make that assumption. Just because the character of Melanie doesn't like people to look at her doesn't mean you—"

  "I don’t like people to look at me. You found another one. By the end of the evening maybe we'll find out that every single line of that play is verbatim from my life."

  Kelly put a mound of noodles on each of our plates and then ladled a generous amount of sauce on top.

  "Just because it's about you," she said, "doesn't mean it hasn't been fictionalized."

  "Right," I said hesitantly.

  "As long as the writer has the perspective on herself, or whoever, to see the story. The beginning, the middle and the end. And the end has meaning. It's not just 'the way it happened.' Then it's fiction, not just therapy or indulgence."

  "And do you think my play has a beginning, middle and an end?"

  "I believe in your play. Otherwise I wouldn't be doing it."

  I noticed the evasion. "Maybe you just see a good part for yourself."

  "Why are you doing this? It isn't my place to decide if your play is good or not. I'm just the actress."

  There was some truth to this. She was just the actress, and I shouldn't have cared so much. "I don't know why, but I want your approval."

  "Well, you already have it, so relax."

  I took another sip of wine. It was going to my head. "I hope I'm not going to be too drunk to run lines with you."

  "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

  "All least I don’t have to memorize them. I don't know how you do it."

  "I'm a quick study. And once you have the lines, that's when it starts getting fun. That's why I like to get them down quickly. It holds you back when you're dependent on the script."

  "If I thought, while I was writing, about the fact that someone would have to memorize all their lines, I don't think I’d feel right having a character say so much. The effort that goes into putting on a play is so out of proportion to the payoff."

  "Do you believe that?"

  "Not if it becomes a classic and it's done all the time all over the world. But if it takes the usual route of a small production that comes and goes and no one ever sees it. This spaghetti is so good, by the way."

  "I'm glad you like it."

  We both ate in silence.

  "I'm sorry if I sound like I complain a lot about the theater."

  "I don't care. Complain away."

  "We all know how hard it is."

  "And we do it anyway."

  "I was wondering about you, though."

  "Yes?"

  What I really wanted to know was if she had a boyfriend, or since it didn't seem like she did, what her last serious relationship was. "You went to Juilliard?"

  "Uh huh."

  "Were people there good?"

  "The people were great. I had classes taught by some amazing people. Kevin Kline. Judi Dench. It was a great program."

  "That's great." I took another bite. I waited to see if she'd say more. She didn't.

  "Did you stay in touch with any of those people? The other students?"

  "Some of them."

  "It's good to have a network of people. You can help each other out."

  "Sometimes."

  I
felt determined that I was going to get her to talk about herself, but she seemed equally determined not to reveal anything. Then she paused in her eating and smiled at me with this little mischievous look.

  "So what's the deal with you and Peter?"

  "Peter?"

  "Are you sleeping with each other?"

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  I found myself once again struggling with how much I was going to tell her about myself.

  "There is nothing going on with me and Peter."

  "I don't believe you."

  "I hardly even know him. We just met a few months ago. I sent my play to his theater. He liked it. We met. He offered to do this production."

  "And here I thought you two were an item from way back, and you were just playing it cool in front of us."

  "It's not like that at all."

  "So there's nothing going on between you two? You're not attracted to him?"

  I was about to answer her, and then, in the nick of time, I turned it around. "Are you attracted to him?"

  And for this question, I got a payoff. She smiled with pleasure. "I think he’s adorable."

  "You do?"

  "Oh, yes. I would love to get him in my bed."

  It was annoying. Why did she have to like him of all people in the universe? "So are you going to make a move on him?"

  "I don't see why not. Especially if you have no claims."

  Did I have a claim? I thought of the kiss on my cheek. That

  was kind of a claim. But the idea of declaring him for myself when she wanted him made me feel anxious. It was important to keep her happy for the production. That was the most important thing. I needed her to stay happy.

  Now I suspected more than ever that he was her main reason for deciding to do my play. Maybe even my presence here in her apartment wasn't to read lines at all, but was to clue her in about Peter. The dinner and the wine and the compliments were all, in the end, about finding a way to him.

  Though that didn't make sense. She didn't need to get to him through me. If she wanted him, I had no doubt, she could get him. Walk right over me.

  In any case, I really couldn't fathom the idea of competing with her. After all, she had sex as a weapon. I was basically unarmed.

  "I like him. And he likes me," I said. "But that's all there is to it."

  The next week I had to miss a couple rehearsals because they had a rush of work at my job and called me in for extra hours. I rationalized that, despite what Peter had said, it was just as well to let the actors work without me staring down their throats. But it seemed so contrary to the point of my whole existence to be in a law office sitting in front of a computer typing up cover sheets for co-op conversions when I knew that in a small mirrored room on

  27th Street two actresses, a director and a stage manager were all focusing their attention on my play. I tried to comfort myself with the thought that if I was a successful playwright, my plays would be done all over the world, and I could never hope to be at all the productions—not even for opening night, much less rehearsals. But my plays weren't being done all around the world. And I was lucky it was being done at all. I put on my headphones and dug out an old favorite—Sheryl Crow being passionately depressed—and made myself forget about the party I was missing.

  I returned to rehearsal on a Thursday evening. I couldn't help but wonder if Kelly had made a move on Peter yet, but it didn't seem like it. As everyone straggled in, I noticed the mood was not exactly cheery. Peter looked worried. Annie looked distressed. Kelly looked grouchy. Nobody seemed particularly happy to see me. Or happy to be there. Or happy to be doing what they loved most in the world.

  The honeymoon was definitely over.

  At this point, what was uppermost on everyone's mind was that they were putting in an awful lot of time and hard work and not getting paid. Certainly the actresses were wondering, "Who is this know-it-all director pestering me about lines when he's lucky I showed up at all today? And why aren't I working on Broadway like so-and-so who has half as much talent as I do?"

  They were trying to do the third scene of the play off book. But they couldn't go more than a few lines without messing up.

  Julia: "And so, my dear sister, I know this would be terribly inconvenient for you, and you like your privacy and everything, but I need to ask if I can move in with you."

  Melanie: "Here?"

  Julia: "Just until I find something else."

  Melanie: "But what about your cat?"

  Carol interrupted. "The line is: 'But it's so small! And what about your cat!'"

  Melanie: "But it's so small! And what about your cat!"

  Julia: "You'll love living with kitty. You know how she loves her Aunt Melanie."

  Adores her Aunt Melanie, I thought, the word is adore, not loves. Carol didn't correct her. Did she think it was too insignificant to stop them? She'd just made a small correction. Maybe she didn't want to make another one. Or did she not notice? Or maybe she preferred the word "loves." Would Kelly catch it later? Should I tell her? Was it worth the bother?

  Melanie: "But there's nowhere for you to sleep."

  Julia: "I'll sleep on the floor. Can you imagine an easier houseguest?"

  Melanie: "There must be someone. One of your friends with a bigger place. What about Jeffrey?"

  Julia: "What about his wife?"

  Melanie: "I thought he was divorcing her."

  Carol: "'I thought he was really getting ready to divorce her.'"

  Melanie: "I thought he was really getting ready to divorce her."

  "Line?" It was Kelly.

  Carol read out her line. "'He is. He hates her. And he's madly—"'

  Julia: "He is. He hates her. And he's madly in love with me. But he's afraid, you know. It's complicated."

  "Line?" This time it was Melanie.

  Carol: "'But did you talk about it in a direct—'"

  Melanie: "But did you talk about it in a direct way?"

  Julia: "Yes! That's why we're fighting! He doesn't want to!"

  "I'm sorry," Annie interrupted. "I’m having trouble with this."

  Kelly put her script down with impatience.

  "Why," Annie complained, "doesn't she let her sister move in with her? I mean Julia is losing her own apartment, she's broke, her boyfriend is screwing her, and she's lost her job. How can Melanie be so heartless?"

  But don't you see, I wanted to tell her, this is good that she's finally saying no. She's not letting herself be bullied. You've been complaining about Melanie being too passive so enjoy the fact that she's finally standing up for herself! I kept my mouth shut.

  "I'm glad that you're seeing it that way, Annie," Peter said.

  "Because that's just how Melanie sees it too. She's finally saying no, but it's tearing her apart inside because she feels like she should be saying yes. She always feels it from Julia's point of view. So this is very hard for her. So don't let go of all those conflicted feelings, even while you speak the words that Jennifer has written."

  "I don't know," Annie said. "It doesn't feel right."

  She avoided looking at me.

  They continued. Doggedly. Stumbling over the lines.

  "Can we take that again?" Kelly asked.

  "I don't know what's wrong with me today," Annie said.

  "Line?" Kelly said, missing another line.

  "Line?" It was Annie's turn. "Fuck me," she said, "fuck me," as if to ward off Peter's criticism. "Fuck me!"

  "Ladies!" Peter finally blew up. "You have to learn your lines! We open in two weeks! How do you expect to rehearse if you don't know the fucking lines?!"

  We were now, I felt, clearly at that point in rehearsal where everyone, collectively, without having to say it out loud, hated the play.

  Any doubts or insecurities they had about it to begin with (previously put on the back burner because of course you want to give the benefit of the doubt to this project you've been chosen to be involved in) were now in full flower. The
play was horribly flawed. Bound to flop and embarrass us all.

  I sat in the back row, mortified and guilt stricken. I was sorry that I had written the play at all and compelled them into performing it. Because, let's face it, this wasn't really a play. It was a sadistic exercise to force unsuspecting people into experiencing a re-creation of some of the worst moments of my life.

  And now the play was ruling their lives like a crazed dictator, holding them captive in its insane little world.

  Peter called a break. Everyone separated off. Annie sat in one corner whispering her part to herself. Carol took out a sandwich and started to eat. Peter went out in the hall and Kelly followed him. I stifled the urge to go to each and every one of them and apologize profusely for having inflicted this nightmare onto them.

  Of course, none of them were prisoners. And I was fully aware that they could walk out and never come back any time they wanted. And there would be nothing I could do about it.

  I wondered what Peter and Kelly were doing out in the hall. Maybe she had already made a move on him. And they were doing a good job of hiding it from the rest of us. And right now they were together in the bathroom, making out. Because they just couldn't stand having to keep their hands off each other during these tedious rehearsals.

  Annie looked up from her script. Our eyes met. I wanted her to know that I wasn't mad that she didn't like Melanie (and by extension me) because I could understand how frustrating this character could be. So I offered to get her some tea or coffee from the deli down the block.

  "No, thanks, I have water."

  She picked up the ubiquitous plastic bottle of water that all actresses carry with them like birth control and took a sip.

  "Are you hungry?" I asked. "I could pick you up something to eat. A sandwich?"

  "I'm fine, really."

  I looked towards the door, hesitating. I didn't want to find Peter and Kelly out there in a passionate embrace. Safer to stay here.

  Annie saw the worry on my face.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I really do love this play. And even though I'm struggling here, you know, this is just my way. This is how I work. And I have to work through it. So don't be freaked out if it seems like I'm having a hard time. Okay?"

  "Okay," I said. "Thanks."

  We smiled. It felt good to be reassured. It didn't sound like she was going to quit. She might ruin the play, but she wasn't going to quit.