Intentional Fallacy (Book 5)

Chapter 8

The theater was an altogether different place than it had been the night before. It was daytime and the day and night before had felt like the continuation of one long nightmare. Somehow walking into the theater and its row of windows just under the ceiling sending channels of yellow morning light into the small space, gave me a sense of hope. As soon as we entered the assistant director waved to Matt. The actors turned around and stopped reading their lines. I saw coffee cups here and there on the stage, and even the velvety burgundy curtains looked beautiful in the light where as the night before they looked to me the color of blood.

Matt turned to me. He handed me the key to the office. "You can grab a cup of coffee before you call, if you want. Don't worry. If you want to stay with me or Eileen tonight that's fine."

I smiled at him. "OK. Thank you. You're such a good friend."

He kissed me on the cheek before he walked down the aisle and up on to the stage. It caused a warmth, a longing to feel him that close. The assistant director handed him a script that had been sitting on a table nearby. He stood under the flood lights reading to himself. Orienting himself to the scene—into that frame of mind. I walked around the side of the stage and fixed myself a cup of coffee, then around the back of the stage and before I went up the stairs to call Jeff I watched Matt and the actors. I'd always liked rehearsals and shows at Matt's black box theater. I especially loved standing back stage during shows and seeing the actors under the hot white lights, the audience barely visible. The pretend world always gave e comfort. In that moment I wished I were up there, holding a script, reading words instead of living my life. In that moment I felt as though I hated my life. It dawned on me –not in a melodramatic sense but in a matter-of-fact one-- maybe it would be all right if I were to die, whether it was at Jeff's hands or behind the wheel driving home.

A black phone sat on Matt's messy desk. He had piles of scripts on one side, the pages of most of them curled and worn from all of the rehearsals. How many plays had he written? I considered what a wonderful job it must be, to tell a story and use people as your agents, to have them up on stage in a completely artificially constructed reality and make an audience believe what they're saying—true or not. I felt myself starting to cry and I wasn't sure what about that free associative thinking was upsetting to me. It was relevant to my problem I was sure but I wouldn't' have been able to articulate it. It seemed just as real as it did unreal. If I were to put it into a script what would it be? That a ghost comes to visit me? She tells me the truth but her words are rambling? Instead of a conversation with words, she speaks in visceral truths that are unintelligible. I thought of Cassandra the Greek mythological figure. She could see the truth, the future but no one would believe her. That was her irony. What was mine?

I picked up the phone and dialed the house. It rang several times and Jeff picked up. His voice was so familiar to me. In an instant I felt guilty for all of it. For my ridiculous fears.

"It's me." I said.

Where are you?

"I stayed at Joanie's."

"You're not at Joanie's. Would you come home and talk to me?"

"No."

"Eve I'm going to San Francisco tomorrow. If you won't come home, will you meet me somewhere then? Can I meet you for a drink or lunch?"

"It's good that you're leaving for a few days. I need some time." I started to cry. "I'm going crazy. I whispered.

"You're not going crazy Eve. For Christ sake you're always going crazy and you never do. You're the most emotional person I've ever met."