Cherri finally released me the next morning. Not that I particularly wanted to go, but we had a company call at 11:00 to continue working through Macbeth. As I stood in the tiny shower cubicle in my apartment, I had a disturbing thought. The past–what?–thirty some hours had been as happy as any I could remember, not to mention potentially life-changing. I’d fallen in love, or maybe just fallen deeper in love, with Cherri. My head felt like I was popping popcorn in it: idea after idea flying this way and that. Did she love me too? If so, what to do next. If not…didn’t want to go there. Was this even right? What did we really know about each other? Sex had been great. Sex had been better than great! Sex had been…yeah, but what if that’s all it was? Nah! She’d said…and on and on and on.
All well and good, but I had a fucking play to rehearse. I had lines I’d neglected, and business to refine and polish, not to mention fights to drill. What if I wasn’t interested anymore? What if I just wanted to spend the rest of my life in bed with Cherri? What if…fuck it. Get out of the damn shower, get dressed, and go earn what passes for your salary.
80.
At least the lack of interest part of the popcorn turned out not to be a problem. Back in rehearsal, Cherri and I, by what seemed like a mutual tacit understanding, treated each other with the affectionate professionalism we’d developed during the first week. And we both threw ourselves back into the work with energy and enthusiasm. Maybe people would have no idea we’d hooked up.
Fat chance.
There are very few secrets in a rehearsal room, and fewer still in a regional rehearsal room, where two thirds of the company comes from out of town, and is sometimes housed–as we all were–in a single building. By the end of Tuesday’s rehearsal it was clear that most of the cast knew, that some of them approved, and more didn’t care one way or the other. Most actors are tolerant of showmances, which is what everybody assumed this was, because they’ve had them themselves, or hope to. As long as nothing unpleasant makes its way into the rehearsal room, the usual practice is to acknowledge what’s going on, gossip a bit about it, if you enjoy that sort of thing, and get on with your day.
At dinner in my apartment that night–supermarket baked chicken, salad from a bag, and baked sweet potatoes, because I may not know much about cooking, but I know how to bake a fucking sweet potato–Cherri warned me that I’d better treat her right.
“Sam said all I had to do was say the word and he’d happily beat the shit out of you for me.”
“That’s aggressive. I thought Sam” (Sam Cabrerra, 6’3″ and 240 pounds of Banquo/Siward) “and I got along pretty well.”
Cherri grinned. “I think he may still have a little crush on me. We did Tooth of Crime together maybe five years ago, and he sort of hit on me, but I was with somebody else at the time, so…”
“Okay, now I am jealous. I’ve never done any Shepard.”
“Really? There’s all kinds of good stuff for you. Anyway, you just better be good to me, or Banquo might murder Macbeth first.”
“Can I be good to you again tonight?”
She giggled. “I was hoping you’d ask. In fact, I’m thinking about modifying my conditions for our agreement.”
“What conditions? For that matter, what agreement? We were supposed to keep our hands off each other–mostly–until Valentine’s Day.”
“I know, but you just couldn’t resist my feminine allure.”
“I couldn’t…? You know, premature senility is a terrible thing. You’re the one who…”
“ANYWAY!” she was grinning, “I don’t think you’ll find the modified condition too hard to deal with. Or maybe, hopefully, you will.”
“Will what?”
“Find it, um, hard to deal with. I’ve decided we should both be naked when you give me my goodnight kiss. And preferably in my bed, under the covers. Think you can work with that?”
“Not in my bed?”
“I’m willing to be flexible.”
“I know you are.”
“You’re a beast, and I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. But seriously, are you using the sheets that come with this place?”
I grinned ruefully. “Guilty.”
She pretended to consider. “Well…if we happen to be here, for dinner, say. And you find yourself unable to resist” she gave her voice the high-pitched innocence of the heroine in a melodrama, “hurling me onto your bed and having your wicked, wicked way with me, I suppose we can make an exception. But wouldn’t you rather…”
“Say no more, my Lady. Much more comfortable outraging you on the bamboo. And I reluctantly…” speeding my voice up, and going for a kind of human Golden Retriever vibe, “agree totally and completely to your condition so can we go up right now, huh, can we, huh, can we can we can we?”
She laughed. “You’re a goof!”
“And you’re a naughty little temptress!”
“Ooh, naughty am I? Does that mean I’m going to get that spanking you promised me the other day?”
“Maybe. But I have to Venmo Regina first.” Regina was our first Witch/Lady Macduff. She was also Beatrice in Much Ado, and she had the apartment next to Cherri’s.
“Regina? Why?”
“At lunch today, she said that if I planned on spending any more nights at your place, I had to buy her a pair of earplugs.”
Cherri’s cheeks turned pink.
“Oops. Oh boy! Well…maybe you should take that as a compliment.”
I didn’t comment on that. But I grinned.
Cherri rolled her eyes. She said: “Bastard.”
81.
Four magical weeks. Every day we worked on what was turning into an excellent production of one of the greatest plays ever written, and almost every night Cherri and I would go to sleep in each other’s arms, usually after one or two orgasms apiece. Sometimes we were passionate with each other, sometimes gentle, sometimes playful, sometimes downright kinky.
For example: Friday of the second week, we rehearsed Act 4, scene 1, Macbeth’s final visit to the witches. Gil’d had an idea.
Everybody, directors included, know about ideas. They come by night, whispering to your addled subconscious that they hold the key to this line or that scene, and that all you need to do is follow their directives and theatrical immortality is yours.
They’re almost always shit. You try them. They don’t work. You move on with your day.
The witches begin 4.1 creating their famous potion: “Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog.” All that fun stuff. In many productions, Macbeth, who enters as they’re finishing up this demon chowder, is forced to drink some of it in order to access the visions the witches show him as the scene continues. Gil decided that the witches would bind my arms between two poles. Then, one would pull my head back, while another fed me the brew with a long spoon, and the third conducted the apparitions. Footlights and fog in front of me, and since I’d been bound standing up, the audience would have an easier time seeing my reactions. All of which begged the question where to put the apparitions…
We tried it. Didn’t take long for it to get complicated. Would Macbeth allow himself to be bound? Seems unlikely. So how should the witches overpower him in order to bind him? Magic, of course. So…what kind of magic?
The scene limped along. Variations on the theme for about a week. When Gil finally admitted defeat, cut the binding, and had the witches force me to my knees behind the cauldron, dunking my head into the brew for each apparition, the decision took a full ten minutes off the show’s run time.
Everybody was relieved. Regina muttered “Praise Jesus!” under her breath when Gil announced we were losing the binding. Nobody liked it.
Well, nobody except Cherri.
82.
Cherri had watched Friday’s rehearsal of 4.1. It had been the last scene of the day, and she and I had planned to walk home together. At the stairs up to her apartment, she turned and put her arms around me.
“My Thane, would you mind terribly kissing me goodnight now, and maybe spending tonight in our own rooms? I want a little alone time with 5.1 before we work it tomorrow…for two and a half hours!”
Did I mind? No. Well, not really. It’d be our first night apart since we’d come together the previous Sunday. I wasn’t sure how well I’d be able to sleep without the warmth of her, or the smell of her, or…hoo boy! For fuck sake, Brenner, you’d managed for the first nearly half century of your benighted existence, hadn’t you?
I said: “No problem, Cher.” and leaned in to kiss her.
She put a finger to my lips. “I’m going to miss this warm body, and these sweet lips,” which made everything a little better. Then she cupped my chin, and brought my mouth to hers. We shared a slow, deep kiss, and her hand dropped to my groin. She stroked me as she whispered “mmm, and this nice, hard cock, but I am not going to touch myself tonight.”
“Oh no?”
“Uh uh. Because tomorrow night, I have plans for you, and for it”
“Do you?”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay!” And just like that, the world was a wonderful place again. I’d thought I’d been in love before. Didn’t remember it being this…blissfully disorienting.
Cherri purred: “Kiss me again.” I did, and as we finished, she took my lower lip between her teeth and bit it gently.
“Sweet dreams…my Thane.”
“And to you, my Lady.” And I lingered to watch her climb the stairs, because…well, for all kinds of reasons.
83.
Saturday’s rehearsal ended at 6:00, and Cherri had been released early. Coming out of the theater, my phone buzzed with a text:
“My place at 8:00 pm sharp! Have an early dinner. You’re going to need your strength.”
What the…?
84.
Cherri opened to my knock at 8:00. Bathrobe, nightshirt, no makeup, and no reference made to it, which made me happy for some reason I couldn’t quite articulate. I reached for her, but she stepped back. I said: “No goodnight kiss?”
She grinned. “Hmm, you know how much I love your kisses, but first I want to play a game.”
I said: “Cards Against Humanity? Trivial Pursuit? Ice Hockey?”
She stared at me for a second: “Must be interesting to be you. No…I want to play a kinky sex game.”
I said: “Let me think about…okay!”
She giggled. “Trust me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Pick a safe word.”
Okay then. I thought for a minute: “Paintbrush.”