[ the script, which blade had read beforehand and only half remembers, had been a relatively straightforward story. a neglectful husband and his disappointed wife sitting across from each other at the dinner table, followed by an argument, after which the husband storms out and leaves the wife alone—the setup, as he understands it, for a subsequent scene in which the wife's, er, needs are thoroughly and variously satisfied by either the mailman or the younger man living across the street, blade can't quite recall which. it wasn't very many lines, and he was told he would mostly just need to sit quietly and make sounds like he was pretending to pay attention, which seemed doable enough.
he was not, however, expecting that once he was seated in his place, that the woman who came in to play his "wife" would be none other than manuela. after their last encounter some weeks ago, blade had been confident that she would sooner die than set foot in a room with him again, and yet—here she is. not comfortable, perhaps, but neither is she calling for an end to the production. a consummate professional, it seems.
there's real food on the table. after the director calls for action, blade—who has never in either of his lives been an actor—turns his disinterested gaze on the plate before him and says, in a tone as bland as he can make it, ]
I'm going to have to work late again tomorrow.
[ they're not going to talk about it. why would they? they just need to get through one scene, and then manuela will be free to never see blade again. ]
extra sets!
he was not, however, expecting that once he was seated in his place, that the woman who came in to play his "wife" would be none other than manuela. after their last encounter some weeks ago, blade had been confident that she would sooner die than set foot in a room with him again, and yet—here she is. not comfortable, perhaps, but neither is she calling for an end to the production. a consummate professional, it seems.
there's real food on the table. after the director calls for action, blade—who has never in either of his lives been an actor—turns his disinterested gaze on the plate before him and says, in a tone as bland as he can make it, ]
I'm going to have to work late again tomorrow.
[ they're not going to talk about it. why would they? they just need to get through one scene, and then manuela will be free to never see blade again. ]