Flaming

Oliver lifts his eyebrows, either startled by Zakary actually knowing the next line, or by him speaking at all. But instead of praise, the director quietly reminds him: “Cute coatracks don’t speak.”

Pinpricks of humiliation rush up Zakary’s cheeks. “S-Sorry.”

Hudson sits on the arm of the nearby couch set piece with a huff. “I don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I feel like I’m holding all the tension in the world. I even have a sore neck from it.”

Just as Oliver swallows down a gallon of frustration, prepared to round on the poor actor once more, a voice calls out from the back of the auditorium: “Can I try something?”

Everyone turns to the voice. A figure comes out of the dark, sauntering down the aisle, self-assured and nearly bouncing. His dark hair, salt and peppered only across the sides, casts a messy, tangled shadow over his thick eyebrows and vibrant eyes. His full lips are twisted into an amused smirk, revealing a dimple in the smooth caramel skin of his handsome face.

It’s Jonatho Nassar himself. The playwright, making a surprise appearance.

Zakary is in shock. Though the playwright has made a habit of watching some of the rehearsals since he’s staying in town for the production anyway, Zakary didn’t think he was returning until opening night to see the fruit of his labor come to life.

Jonatho hops onto the stage with surprising ease, as if walking on air, then comes to a stop next to the director and gives an adorably apologetic smile. “Hudson, it’s pretty simple. The secret behind your character is that you’re an insecure twig with an inferiority complex. Don’t overcomplicate it in your head. Emilio, my friend, you’re terrified of being tied down. In a relationship, I mean,” he quickly adds, smirking with innuendo. “In the bedroom, anything’s fair game. I know that’s not in the script, but if you imagine it that way, everything just sort of … makes sense. You’re a kinky bastard. Didn’t we have this talk a few weeks ago? Bit late now for character epiphanies. Anyway, let me be the bad director for a moment and give you the voice behind my words, if you’ll allow me?”

Zakary watches in awe as Jonatho struts right up to the bar next to him, takes a glass into his hand, then starts to pour.

Then the adorable playwright’s eyes zero in on Zakary, piercing straight through him.

Zakary is breathless. At once, he’s not a mere stagehand in the play. He is part of the play. He is one with the playwright. Present. Focused. Existing. Real.

What is it about the playwright that so brings Zakary to life?

“Is this really how it ends?” Jonatho asks Zakary. Considering Jonatho’s sincere tone of voice, Zakary forgets for a moment they’re rehearsing a play, feeling as if he’s really being asked the question—until he realizes it’s the character’s line the playwright is reciting. “Are you … Are you ending things with me? Just because I asked you to my sister’s wedding? How deep does your fear of commitment go?”

Zakary, yet again, fails to remain a cute, silent coatrack. “This ended a long time ago.”

“No, it didn’t,” says Jonatho, continuing the scene seamlessly, taking a step forward. “You don’t get to end something you were too cowardly to begin in the first place. It’s up to me when this ends.”

“Oh, really? How about you enlighten me on your whereabouts last night?” retorts Zakary, in character.

Jonatho is right there with him. “With my sister. Who else?”

“Bullshit.”

“I was. Ask her yourself. Y’know, the one whose wedding you won’t attend. Because you’re too afraid to be seen with me at a social event that might imply we’re more than—”

“I may be afraid of a lot of things. But I’m not afraid of that.”

“Oh, really? Prove it.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you anymore.”

“Of course you do. That’s all love is at a certain age: constantly proving shit to each other. Prove you feel something for me. Prove you feel love. Prove you feel anything at all.” Jonatho picks up the glass, then flings its contents into Zakary’s face, shocking him. “Prove you feel that.”

Water drips from Zakary’s chin as genuine surprise fills his eyes.

It’s just as well, because Jonatho chooses then to end the demonstration, facing the actors. “That’s the tension this scene needs. You relax into it too early. You aren’t realizing this is the end of their lives, as far as they’re concerned. Nothing will be the same after this night, after that bourbon is flung from your glass. Something changes. See that look on Zakary’s face?” Jonatho points. “That’s real surprise. That’s real tension. I know you’ve been rehearsing this scene for weeks, but you have to find a way to make it surprise you every time. It must surprise you tomorrow when we open. Perform every scene like it’s the first time every time. And when you have an audience filling those seats out there? It will be a whole new game.”