Page 83 of Turnabout Is Fair Cosplay
“Is it ever both?”
Mike sighs. “That’s when it gets fun. ‘Yes, and…’ is the first rule of improv. It’s every actor’s favorite phrase. Because human experience isn’t ever distilled down to one emotion.”
“So…what would romance look like if a character was both sweetandpassionate? Flames and sugar?”
“I’d have to show the conflict. The struggle is real and all that.”
“How?”
“Depends. Am I onstage solo? Am I monologuing? Is the object of my desire close? What act am I in?”
“Second act. Monologue.”
“Deep enough into the story to know what I want but light-years away from achieving it.” Mike drums his fingers on thecounter. “Frustration. And motivation. And longing. And just the tiniest”—he nudges the teapot—“glimmer of hope.
“I’d make sure to frequently bend my head, round my shoulders to convey the weight of my unrequited love. My body would fold and look too heavy to stand to convey the uncertainty I felt. And then, should my love interest enter the stage, those lines would change dynamically.”
I fill two glasses to the brim with ice. “Explain.”
“I’d go a bit manic. Uneven cadence in my speech and pacing. I’d echo any posture my heart’s desire had done earlier. Any interaction she had with props—I’d find a reason to touch them too. If I found something of hers, I’d keep it. Put it on my body, close to my heart.”
“Show me?”
Mike inhales slowly. His eyes scan me, lingering a bit too long. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to act with you, Bea.” He runs a hand through his hair again. “I don’t want to confuse you.”
I pour the steaming tea into the glasses, making the ice crack and hiss. “I’m a pretty smart cookie.” I hand him one of the glasses.
“I know.” He takes the tea with a nod of thanks and retreats to my bookshelves and cactus collection. “The world’s most qualified dog walker.” He reaches up and sends my hanging monkey tail cactus swaying.
“I know the difference between pretend and real.”
“But maybe I don’t.”
It’s not easy to sleep with bright moonlight winking at me through my blinds. Then again, it’s not easy to sleep knowing that Mike is steps away on my pullout sofa. He was reluctant to stay, but I pointed out that if he died from heatstroke overnight, he wouldn’t get to play the best part he’s ever played.
The show must go on! So he agreed to sleep on my couch.
Why did I push him? A dead landlord is no good to me, I tell myself.
I listen to his peaceful breathing. I take note of how his chest rises and falls. He has zero issues sleeping at my place, and it isn’t fair. How does he make everything look so easy?
I don’t know when I doze, but I must because the next thing I know, I’m waking up to the sound of Mike at my stove, rattling a pan on the burner. Something smells divine.
“You promised me cookies,” I say.
“Omelets are a lot healthier than cookies.”
“But I don’t like them.” I honestly haven’t been able to stomach even the thought of eggs since my stint on Adam’s couch.
“You’ll like these.”
He’s right. The omelets are delicious. “Did your grandma teach you how to make these too?”
“No, but my high school buddy’s grandma in Texas did.”
