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Every so often a woman with huge breasts and come-hither eyes likes the poster for my play. I posted the poster on Instagram where anyone in the world can see what I’ve put out for everyone to see for all time. My phone pings like a missile detector. Chief, we’ve got another incoming.
It thrills me to know there are patrons of the theater still out there. When I click on her profile, the woman has a link to her website in her bio where she has posted photos and videos off-Instagram. I stay off those links which fills me with tremendous guilt as this woman has engaged with my art. We have a great deal in common in our struggles. I should return the favor.
That post of the poster of my play has 45 likes with many coming from women with huge breasts and come-hither eyes. I wonder if any of them would come to the show. I imagine them all there, a whole audience of women with huge breasts and as the lights come up for bows, they clap and holler, and change their eyes to come-thither eyes, wishing they could storm the stage immediately to discuss the writing and the riveting performances. I wonder if I should message them and see if they are as committed as they say they are to the art of the theater.
A feminist actress once told me no one wants to be complimented, they want to be worshiped. This feminist actress also denounced porn as evil and artless. The women with huge breasts and come-hither eyes all mention they are aspiring models. I am deeply drawn to them as I am an aspiring actor. I keep kicking myself for not checking out their art considering they have been so supportive of mine. It’s like this one time when I did a show and one guy came. The stage manager wanted to pack it in, send him home but I said no. This guy managed and so will we. It was the stage manager, the guy, and me and my solo show went on for an hour and fifty-seven minutes after which the lights came up for the bows. It was totally silent. So after I bowed, I came over to this guy and woke him up. I thanked him, let him know, you can go home now and he did.
The lead actress in my play broke up with me. I now don’t know how to speak to any other soul in a normal fashion about life and the way it behaves.
I betook of the tune “The Rolling Stones - Wild Horses (Slowed + Reverb)” 17 times without breathing. The homeless man at the train stop enlightened me on the theory of Xenomathematics, Zig Zag Zig Allah, the Chrononaut, the Bait Al-Jauzah-Beetlejuice corruption, Rizqiyians, the Basic Instructions Before Leaving Earth and I didn’t give a hoot to miss three trains with my multitude of inquiries I had! My mom is a friend of mine and she started creating distance by being in a relationship with an older man who likes peanut butter whiskey exclusively and is having sexual relations with her which I never want to mention again so I will simply stop talking about that, now.
The lead actress had talked about how her love couldn’t grow without better soil but I know it’s because I’m an atheist and her dad refused to say one word when I met him for the first time at Chipotle. He asked her how the play was going and I said it just got extended which I should say the play got extended because audiences are enjoying the lead actress’s stellar performance. She’s the apple of the whole audience’s eye. Her father acted as if I have never existed.
We still kiss Thursdays-Saturdays at 7:30, Sunday matinees. We share that kiss and then (spoiler alert) I die and am never heard from again during the events of the play except for a monologue she delivers about my untimely demise where I poke my head out of a wooden hole painted as a cloud from in heaven. I see her, peripherally, as she delivers the monologue though I can’t react. I, of course, have to be looking afterlifedly somber and despondent into the blank nothing blackness of the unseeable house. I used to explain to her when she found me nihilistic and thrilling that the noneness of God informed the beautiful of all there was and that my nonbelief while sturdy and true was ultimately humble and simply a fact of where I was at that exact moment of my living but that I was open to change especially I was directed to by an all loving, all powerful God. But this is what I see, I would say, for now: mysterious, rich, complex, total blackness.
I, in sleeplessness, dream I have a different part. The lead actress leans in for our kiss but I can’t. I am muttering a mantra, Zig Zag Zig Allah. She can’t kiss because the Rizqiyians have arrived. I am a Rizqiyian, white-robed. I time travel, she marvels. She weeps, I break the heart of her mind. As I depart, I whisper the instructions. A golden ratio a wise man once taught me. She smiles, I ascend. We will meet at the Crossroads.
Post breakup, I feel the kiss we share like the lips it is. Saliva drenched skin with hair and dried crust on the sides. I push out my lips as far as they can go away from my head. The director always directs me to stay locked in close. It won’t be believable. Mid-kiss, I open my eyes to see if she’s seeing what I can’t and she does and I can’t bear to see even her eye slightly well. The kiss is the happiest my character is before he dies and appears in a cloud in a place I don’t believe exists. She sees me. All I see is a house of nothing. I am dying living, I’m choking myself to sleep. That being said, you should see the show, if you can. It’s really good. She’s really good.
