Something about the frisson, the chilly tingle of excitement that hangs in the crisp Valentine air, is conducive to theatre. An epic in itself, I had finally persuaded a lovely young lady, whose name will reamin shrouded in mystery, to follow me to see Indian Ink.
A couple of familar faces on stage, perfect fodder to show off my many, many connections in the theatre world, and a nice piece of light comedy sounded like the perfect start to a perfect evening. I was soon snuggled up against my lady-companion – after some ameteur gymnastics to get to our seats.
Why is it, incidentally, that the bigger a girl’s hair, the more she complains about having to move to let others get to their seats? Do they just assume that that the empty seats on their row will remain unfilled just to please them? The one perched on the end of our row was insufferable!
Thankfully, my own companion took her seat with perfect decorum, snatching only a contemptuous glance at the primped- up princess who was still in paroxysms of shock at our daring to pass her to reach our alloted places.
As the lights slid down, I let my hand fall into hers. As the actors entered the stage, I… well, I sat still and watched. The play, mostly, but I couldn’t help but let my attention be drawn again and again to the beauty next to me. She was holding my hand in the most casual fashion, her attention riveted on the stage.
At the interval she went done to buy some food. To my mild surprise she returned sans refreshments for me. A bit of a dissappointment. But then we forbear. As any real man would know. I imagine.
As the play moved through its second half, she moved her hand out of mine. And was it my imagination, or was she edging away very slightly? The action on stage was hilarious, and I was giggling away merily; she, though, had fallen silent, her brows creased in consternation.
When the play ended, she turned to me. Perfect, beautiful, sexy.
"You laugh like an oaf. That was the most embarrissing couple of hours I have ever spent in life!"
The shock. The utter shock. My laugh isn’t oafish. It is enthusiastic. It is rich. I dare say it has timbre. By the time I had digested this all, however, she had gone.
But what was worse, what was infinately worse, was the sickly grin I received from the big-haired girl as I squeezed past her on my way out. Cow.