Act 1 scene 5 was approaching. I could feel the next line forming in my mouth. The scene was all too familiar, and yet for as well as we knew it, act 1 scene 5 refused to play out as it was meant to. A director would leave the scene behind and come back to it later, but I'm no director. I'm a writer, and in my world of story a plot functions on a timeline. Therefore, act 1 scene 5 would need to be executed properly before act 1 scene 6 could unfold, and I was anxious to find out how this particular story ended. For that reason, I was always in character, ready to try again each time the scene failed, but after going through it so many times, I wasn't sure I could do it again. I could feel the uncertainty climbing up the back of my throat like acid reflex. He was too tired for act 1 scene 5 tonight, but I had to try. The story had to go on.
"What are you doing tomorrow night?" I asked in a rush, spitting out the words before they stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.
"Oh... I'm kind of busy." He replied politely using that familiar phrase of uncertainty to soften the harsh meaning behind his words. How many times had he declined my offer? He was quite obviously tired of this charade. His face had practically turned green from nausea when he recognized the scene.
"Me too." I lied before he had even finished speaking, "Always busy." Then, just for effect, I added, "In fact I had better get going. Sorry to rush out on you like this." I frantically and theatrically gathered my belongings with uncanny grace. "It was nice talking to you. I'll see you around." I half shouted as I jogged out the door. It was a poor attempt at pretending I was the one being sought after, but I needed to at least feel like I was in control even if I knew that the scene's dependence on his part made me powerless.
What could he possibly be busy with? What could be more exciting than being with me? I mean, how could I be any more interesting? I had interesting oozing out my fingertips, dancing on my freckles, and woven through my hair. I was it, the main character of the story, and he played his part beautifully until act 1 scene 5. As soon as we reached this point in the story, he insisted on being the antagonist, sabotaging the plot with the wrong response to my offer.
Why wouldn't he play his part? Did he need a script? It wouldn't be any trouble to whip one up, but stories in real life are supposed to be unscripted, otherwise they're just movies, and I already had this movie. I had the whole collection, the movie in the eye of my imagination, the story on the tip of my tongue, the unpublished novel sitting on my shelf; all I needed to complete the series was the real life experience. He could refuse to cooperate, but I would not retire. I would not rewrite.
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