And If I Started Crying

Brisk sheets of wind crashed against the window. The trees rustled violently. A mild drizzle slashed the scenery at 45 degree angles. A few scattered walkers put their hoods up, if they had them. Otherwise they walked hunched over. The cars drove more slowly, and their headlights were the brightest thing in sight, at this 5:00 hour. Penelope was at Luther’s apartment for the first time since they had slept together. They were smoking a bowl together, listening to Rites of Spring. They were talking loudly and rapidly over the music.
“So you met a girl in the park today?”
“Sort of, she had just walked over to me when you called. I don’t even know her name.”
“Weird. Was she cute?”
“Uh, she had a certain quality about her.”
“So she was hot!”
“I wouldn’t say she was hot.”
“Okay. But good looking?”
“She was different.”
“Okay.”
There was a pause.
“So what else can you tell me about acting?” Penelope asked
“I really don’t know that much about it…Stanislavsky?”
“What’d he do again?”
“Method acting. I guess it was a foundation of my education.”
“Oh, method acting.”
“Do you know anything about it?”
“Just something about tapping into your memories to produce real emotion.”
“Well, it’s even more than that, see,” Luther began. “It holds that when an actor is preparing for a role, he or she is often told to study the character they are going to play. They have to really get to know the character’s inner workings, their best times, their worst times, the things they laugh at, the things that frighten them, etc.”
“Yeah, but then, how do they supply details from their own life?”
“Right, I’m getting it wrong. Well, when the script isn’t well written enough, there’s just not enough information about all the characters written right on the table. You know, you have to be able imply certain things about a character, when you’re an actor. Like, maybe you think a character is gay, but that’s not served up so much in words as in glances the actor will take, or the tone they will use, or what clothes the costume designer will choose to dress them in, etc.”
“So if you play a gay character, the words themselves may not be gay, but the character can imply it.”
“Right, just now I’m getting to my point. Method acting involves remembering horrible things that happened to you. This is the gut-wrenching part of acting. You have to really tap into memories you’d want to forget, just to get at that emotion. Then, once you feel what you felt at that time of whatever horrible thing happened to you, you’re set. You know how to get to “that place” then. I mean, I imagine that’s the way a lot of actors learn how to cry on command.”
Penelope was looking out the window.
“So you’re saying, if I remember the worst thing that ever happened to me, and if it made me cry, I can learn how to cry when the moment calls for it?”
“Exactly.”
Luther leaned over and kissed her. Penelope sighed and tenderly sucked at his lips and tongue. They were in a position in which they were sort of hugging each other, and then lifting off their shirts, still kissing, as if they had found an air bubble, hands running back and forth around torsos, hands undoing pants, kissing, grabbing, stroking, kissing, sucking, coming back up kissing, pulling off of panties, rubbing, sticking, licking, kissing, fucking, coming.
Penelope had a real orgasm, and had screamed a bit for about five minutes.
“Is there method acting for that?” she asked him.
“No, no, not at all.” He answered, pulling his boxers up and lighting a cigarette.
“So, you just made that up, you didn’t actually have that same kind of sex before?”
“I mean, the degree hadn’t been previously reached.”
“So, are you saying that a precedent was just set?”
“A precedent was just set.”
“Damn.”
Luther smoked leisurely, and Penelope asked if she could have one too. They sat there like that for another good five minutes, then they decided they would go out to dinner. They decided to shower beforehand, together, which delayed them another forty-five minutes. Finally, they dressed, Penelope put on make-up, Luther put gel in his hair and styled it into a faux-hawk, and they walked to the train. They held hands until they sat down. Waiting. Until they boarded the train, in which they sat next to one another on a seat facing another, and when their 63 year-old seat neighbor across from them witnessed them whispering back and forth, making dumb jokes, laughing and putting their arms around each other, he smiled warmly to himself, reflecting on an earlier time in his life, after which he focused his attention on the paper in his hands.