Page 6 of Witch Please

“As a friend. Please. I’ll consider it a personal favor. Anything I can do to help you feel more comfortable with the play I will.”

I wanted to challenge him. To ask him for examples of any time in seven years that we’d been anything more than colleagues. See if he knew even simple things like my favorite color or when my birthday was. Benign information that even the most basic of friendships were founded on.

“All right everyone! Let’s wrap it up and get back to table!”

Franklin, Sebastian’s assistant director walked around the outer hallways of the theater wings, trying to herd everyone towards the tables. I looked to the approaching Franklin, and back to Sebastian, trying to force my brain to function in any intelligent way. I felt my inner self prodding my conscience to bring any point that saidwe’re on to you buddy. But he looked at me at that moment, and any fight I’d been trying to force to the surface got lost in the ocean of his panicked entreaty.

“Sebastian,” I rolled my eyes on a huff.

“Imogen, don’t make me beg. I will, but it won’t be pretty. It will probably be detrimental to my reputation as a salty codger with no social graces.”

His lips split into a boyish smile, his real one. The behind the façade smile. He rapped the rolled up script against my shoulder as some kind of punctuation to the conversation. In a millisecond Franklin appeared to Sebastian’s left, telling us we also needed to head back inside.

“You give a girl a lead, and suddenly she’s a diva.”

Sebastian explained to Franklin winking at me. As I turned towards the theater, he rapped me on my rear end with the same script he’d seconds before been caressing down my arm. As soon as Franklin was out of earshot, Sebastian leaned in so close I could feel his scruff against my cheek, “I am looking so forward to bringing out your inner witch, Dr. Pilar.”

Chapter 6

Imogen acted exactly as I’d expected her to when I announced she was going to be my lead. My hunch confirmed she’d have to be pushed into the role kicking and screaming. Something about that fight excited me in the strangest way.

The first week was mostly table reads. The tech crew broke from the actors, working with Franklin to block the play: figuring where actors would stand, enter, exit, how to hang the lights, where to put curtains etc. While they did that, I worked with the actors.

Despite blushing each time she read any of the sexual lines of her part, Imogen was a natural actress even if she didn’t believe herself to be one. She understood the subtly and sensuality that no eighteen to twenty-year-old would have. Every utterance of a line roped me in. She exuded sensuality with a simple shift in the pitch of her voice. Over the course of the last few days, those subtle seductions worked their graces on me at every turn.

The week had progressed smoothly until we got to Act Three.

“A threesome?” Imogen stopped the read through mid-scene. “Surely this is a joke. In what sphere do you ever think the college will approve of this, Sebastian?”

She sat directly across from me; arms crossed glaring at me with all consuming mortification. There was no greater struggle than keeping my gleeful chuckle under wraps. Despite her typically buttoned up personality, she got feisty when embarrassed.

“Imogen, as the witch you are not a sentient being. Youaredesire.Youare want. Therefore, this is not a threesome. The witch doesn’t exist anywhere but in Macbeth’s head.”

It was impossible to tell if her stoic impassivity meant she was considering what I told her or debating tapping out. While I waited for a response—I could play chicken for an eternity if necessary—I noticed for the first time that today she dressed more like a modern-day female and less like a member of some Dickensian character. She wore her hair down. The waves curling around her shoulders and laying softly against a purple sweater that clung to her curves without being overt in its sexuality. The whole look was quite fetching.

“You—Macbeth. Let’s go. On the stage.” I remembered two beats too late that Macbeth’s actual name was Travis. “And you, Lady Macbeth…you too.”

“I thought blocking was next week?” Lady Macbeth’s name was Sophie, that I remembered right away. It would have seemed odd though to call Travis by his part and Sophie by her given name.

“Let’s go.”

I snapped my fingers in quick succession trying to get them to shake the lead out of their boots and get up on stage. There was nothing less appealing than people who stood and stared instead of just doing what was asked.

“Dr. Pilar is a visual person, so we’re going do a mini-block.”

A young spritely thing named Kennedy—on loan from the English department—had taken over Imogen’s role as Stage Manager. She followed behind me dutifully, script in hand, pencil at the ready to make notations on my instructions to the cast.

“Lady Macbeth—on your back on the bed. Macbeth, take her by the knees as if entering her missionary style.”

“Sebastian!” Imogen whispered, still shocked apparently that I intended to fully act out a sex scene.

“Imogen, thisisShakespeare. You of all people should know even in a watered down, post Victorian state, that his plays are filled with far worse than imitating the most basic and inoffensive sexual position.” I turned back to Macbeth who had to be a virgin based on the way he had Sophie’s legs spread as if she were readying for an inspection from a lady doctor.

“No Travis, not like that. Macbeth is fire. He is passion. While engaging in the act—Imogen, I need you behind me.”

Imogen’s timid hand placement should have annoyed me not charmed me. I barely felt her fingertips through my shirt. If not for her subtle, floral scent I would have had a hard time convincing myself she stood there.

“Actually,” I tried to reign in my impatience. This was expected on the first week. We as a cast needed to figure out how to meld. “Imogen, play Macbeth. Travis watch and learn. Sophie stay where you are. I’ll be the witch.”

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