Page 46 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Really? I thought the one about international jurisdictions and start-up culture was fascinating.”
It did give me and Mom two minutes of interesting conversation before we ordered.
“Sorry to eat and run, but I have a two o’clock.” I rise and give Mom a kiss.
“Cancel. I brought my tarot cards. Jupiter is rising, and Saturn is in Pisces.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that heightened creativity and deep emotional insights are yours for the taking.”
“Deep emotional insights like texting Dad a waffle recipe you know very well is from your blue PTO cookbook? Tempting.” I pat Mom on the shoulder. “But I got places to be and dogs to walk. Thanks for lunch, Mom.”
Chapter 16
I settle into a rhythm. Morning walks along the beach. FroggoDoggo clients in the midmorning to afternoon. Evenings on my favorite bench at Windansea, watching the clouds change from peach to pink to fuchsia to cold misty blue. I’m more grounded. Centered. Sometimes I bring a book. Mostly, I just sit with my thumb between pages, staring out at the horizon, my mind wandering familiar territory and eventually settling on a pair of honey eyes, high cheekbones, and bleached-blond hair until I’m too cold or too irritated to sit there any longer. I walk back to my cottage and fall asleep while reading sonnets withStarship Cruiseron the TV in the background.
It beats my old life by spades. No contest. Corporate law is a grind. I have room to breathe. I have room to discover that I like grapefruit better than tangerines. I’ve traded human clients for dogs, and dogs are better than people.
I’m happy, if not fulfilled. I’m catching my breath, even if I have to dip into savings to cover my expenses. I’ll figure this out, and until then, I’ll be perfectly content to sit on this bench alone.
Tonight, I’m shocked to find Mike sitting on my favorite bench. He’s got a book in hand, but his gaze is fixed on the horizon.
“You’re sitting in my spot,” I tell him.
He keeps staring straight ahead, but slides over so at least half the bench is available.
I could keep walking. I could keep standing. But I sit next to him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going over some of my lines. Opening night is this weekend.”
I reach into my tote and nearly pull out Mike’s sonnets to start my evening reading, but then I remember who I’m sitting next to and press my bag tight to my side as casually as I can.
“What, no words?” he says. “No sharp barb. No quick insult?”
I tap my finger on the book he’s holding. “Do you need help? I can read lines with you.”
“You mean run lines.”
“Same difference.”
“No, actually. Not the same. If I read lines as a director, I would shut down all collaboration and dialogue in my production. It’s downright punitive. If I run lines, then we check each other on accuracy and craft.”
“Fine. I canrunlines with you.”
“Again, no.”
“Why?”
“Because you are not an actor.”
“Everybody acts, Mike.”
“And most everybody is really bad at it, Bea.”
“How hard can it be? I memorized stuff for work all the time.”
“When you memorize something, do you say it differently every time? Or do you sound like a fifth grader at a spelling bee rattling off information?”
