PLAY

"Nigel, when opportunity knocks, you don't knock back. You open the door- wide." Victoria lay on her side on Nigel's bed, watching him at the computer. Susan's enthusiastic invitation frightened him; what would he say? What could he say?

"But I haven't written anything... I'm still not sure I even can." He gave her a helpless stare, waiting for her to provide some grand solution to reconcile his fear.

"Nigel, when I first started out trying to reach my goal becoming an actor on the stage, we used any means we could to gain an opening into the theatre. When volunteers were needed, we volunteered. When scut jobs needed doing, we did them, and we did them in the most ingratiating way we could. We adopted roles and played them to the hilt. It was what we called, the soft push. Frankly, all it was, was a big act designed to get us into 'the big act'." She hung a pair of finger quotes in front of her face.

"I'm not sure I-"

"Look, these people already assume that you are a playwright. It doesn't matter how they came to that assumption, what matters is, they did. All you have to do is go along, make them believe what they already think is true. Play the role to the hilt, Nigel... give them the soft push."

He spun his chair around and sat staring at the blank screen, the cursor blinking like a beckoning finger. "You mean pretend. Let them think I'm the real thing. In other words, lie."

"Lies are only truths unrealized, Nigel. Take my advice, you can pull this off... we can pull it off."

The night sky was a blue-black canvass, spattered with twinkling, yellowish spots, marred only by a dull glow from the lights of the town seeping up above the sill of his window. He lay on top of the sheets with his arms behind his head on the pillow, and marveled at the clarity of the scene. Nigel considered his position, reflecting on Victoria's words. Her seemingly passionate sponsorship suggested something more than just the joining of familial hands; it smacked of something buried among layers of unhealed scars, of some long nurtured agenda. Doubt returned, overwhelming him and he began to regret his agreement to go along with her plan. The total yield of all his years of writing consisted of a bundle of disjointed thoughts and scanty outlines, which under her experienced scrutiny, amounted to nothing. He moaned, and rolled onto his side, thinking how he so perfectly fit the stereotypical novice who began his epic tale with the phrase: It was a dark and stormy night. Sleep eluded him as he tossed and fretted over the luncheon meeting, and finally, by three in the morning, he drifted off to the distant, disconcerting wail of a police siren.

In a mood poles apart from Nigel's, Susan Ho showered and readied for bed, bubbling with excitement. Tiffany's apologetic regrets was a disappointment, but her confidence level remained high, and she climbed into bed, eager to make the most of her committee's extraordinary opportunity.

THE COMINGS AND GOINGS

Allen Gregorio arrived early to his hardware store and quickly called his two employees, advising them that he was closing the business for one day to review the inventory. Avoiding their expected protests, he promised them their full day's pay, reminding them to return on time the following morning. With that done, he busied himself preparing for his visitor; setting out a bottle of French Medoc wine and two glasses, a small tin of raw oysters and an expensive box of chocolate truffles. The low table containing his modest buffet stood in front of a long leather couch on the wall facing his desk. He switched on a portable stereo, slipping in a CD of romantic instrumentals, and dialed the volume down to an unobtrusive background. The railway clock on the wall by the door, read eight-twenty, and Allen grimaced unhappily, realizing it would be at least an hour before his company arrived. Unable to concentrate on business, he wandered through the store, absently checking shelves, straightening products and arranging price cards, mentally urging time to hurry past.

Tiffany stepped from the shower and wound a huge purple towel about her head as she padded to the adjoining dressing room. Daryl was knotting his tie and admiring himself in the large mirror before leaving for work.

"Maybe I should stay home today." He leered, sweeping her nude body with his eyes.

"And then again maybe not, darling," she plunked down on the dressing table stool and examined her face, "I have a busy day with the new Playhouse committee."

"We could play house here." He suggested unenthusiastically, recognizing her succinct refusal.

"Perhaps another time, sweetums." Tiffany lifted her face, tilting it to catch his goodbye peck on the cheek. "Have a nice day, dear."

"You too, Ti," He sighed, walking briskly out of the room.

The door to the garage, in the lane behind the hardware store, was open, and Tiffany expertly wheeled her Lexus into the vacant space beside Allen's Coupe de Ville, cutting the engine and performing a final touch-up in the pull down make-up mirror. She swung the door wide and stuck out one leg, grunting as the tiny skirt pulled tight across her stomach. After a few seconds of acrobatic maneuvers, she slammed the door, tugged her skirt down and picked her way around the cars to the back door of the store.

"At last! I thought you'd never come." Allen opened the door wide, helping her over the step and into his office.

"It's only quarter to ten, darling, I hope you didn't expend all your energy worrying." She turned slowly, eyes drawn to the cozy set up by the couch. "Oh my, this looks delightful, Allen dear."

He locked the door and went to her side, a prideful beam on his eager face. "Just a little préliminaire to the main event."

"Ooooh Allen, French yet. How devastatingly Mediterranean." She strolled to the table and placed a long finger on the top of the wine bottle, turning an expectant glance over her shoulder.

"Ah, yes, of course. Let me get that." He hurried over using a corkscrew selected earlier from stock, and opened the wine, pouring them each a full glass.

"To romance." He tinked her glass, and winked with anticipation, sipping generously. "Sit down, sit down, no need to stand." Allen pulled the table out slightly while Tiffany set down her glass and folded herself into a question mark, trying to bend in the tiny skirt. The leather cushion whooshed as she dropped down, arms out like wings and legs up in the air.

"God, this thing is low, isn't it?" Struggling to sit up and gain her balance.

Allen plunged down beside her, oblivious to her exertions, his own cushion sighing its complaint. "I have some raw oysters, would you like one? You know what they say." He winked again, handing her a small shell and taking one for himself. She leaned forward as far as the binding skirt would allow, and reaching over her eye level knees with her free hand, accepted the shell.

"To bliss and a beautiful woman." He cooed a toast, and linked his arm in hers, slurping down the oyster with gusto.

Tiffany swallowed hers, then cursed, handing him the shell while she yanked the constricting skirt up to her waist, letting out a massive sigh of relief as he handed her back her wine glass.

"Oh god! Oh my god, Tiffany!" Allen's eyes welded themselves to the transparent pink panties she wore.

Slightly more comfortable, Tiffany dragged her nails down the black silk of her stockings, pausing to give the garter straps a naughty snap, before continuing on to trace the lace edge of Allen's fixation. "They're a surprise, for you, darling." She smiled smokily. "I bought them downtown last week. They're... strawberry spice."

Allen's mouth dropped open and he groaned lustfully. "You mean they're... they're...?"

"Every last thread." She leaned back letting her knees fall apart, and bumped his arm, spilling the wine onto his trousers and all over the carpet.

******