I’m Fucking Your Husband

Mrs. Exec: “Do you know where we are supposed to be in this scene?”

Me: “I think we enter from stage right and then stand in our little clump.”

Mrs. Exec: “Oh yeah! Thanks!”

Me: “No problem.”

Oh, and by the way. I’m fucking your delicious husband.

——————————————

When did I become capable of such fuckery?

Every day at rehearsal I have to face her.  His wife.  At first I was extremely nervous.  I avoided her gaze.  I was frustrated when the director constantly pitted us together.  I was even more frustrated when she attempted to try to make friends with me.  And the worst of it all? She’s genuine. Genuinely a good human.

Meanwhile…

I am laying on the couch backstage during our run through of Act II.  I’m skyping with my Mr. Exec.  She is running dances with our cast mates mere feet away from me.  I’m wearing a shit eating grin on my face because we are making plans to meet up again tomorrow.  I. Want. You. I type. I am stealing from her without her knowledge.

It’s astounding to me how many people in that theatre love me.  They don’t really know me, after all. For if they did they would certainly wonder how they ever let me into their inner circle.

What happened to that sweet, shy, woman that I used to be?  When I did I start creating all these webs for a temporary high?  And why is the only remorse I feel surrounds the way he will view me knowing I’m capable of such things?

I’m in shock and awe at my behavior.

Hurricane.

I’m a fucking. Hurricane.

 

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s