“Did I meet a woman…at the monastery?” He cocked an eyebrow at me—an expression he makes in real life when I say something particularly ‘American,’ or worse yet, particularly ‘New York.’
“Well, if you didn’t,” I went on, “I’m hoping maybe, now that you’re back, we could get back together.”
I waited for Paul to “yes and” back to me. He was supposed to say that we could get back together, but add some ridiculous stipulation, but Paul went the other way.
“I’m afraid I took a vow of chastity. It’s part of purifying my spirit.”
“I can think of other ways to purify your spirit.”
The corners of Paul’s mouth quirked upwards. “Kimberly,” (that’s not my real name), “I am trying to live a spiritual life now. If you want to meditate with me, that’s fine.”
“We can meditate in my bedroom. I have a Miles Davis cassette that’s very spiritual.” I mimed pulling out a cassette tape, and I could feel Mark nod, conceding my victory. You can’t bring in the cassette tape right away, because that’s too obvious, and when it shows up, it must feel organic to the scene.
“Seeing you here in a cafe is safer,” he said. “So I won’t be tempted to stray from my path.”
Now I was supposed to commit to my objective. “If you insist,” I said, sitting on his lap. “So how exactly do we start this meditation?”
That was my next big mistake. Don’t escalate a situation physically when you are not supposed to kiss the person. There are rules for consent in improv, which Paul had outlined for all of us.Don’t grope, don’t kiss, don’t make unwanted advances.No problem, I thought as I sat down. Paul would keep us on the straight and narrow.
“Are you going to sit on my lap the whole time?” he asked.
“That won’t hurt your focus, will it?”
“My meditation requires a lack of distraction.”
“Right.” I looked him dead in the eyes, inches from his face. “No distraction.”
“And to completely free my mind from any thoughts,” he added.
“I don’t have a single thought in my head.” I could feel the others watching us, wondering where the scene would go.
“You’re trying to tempt me.”
“Only in a meditative way,” I said.
“It won’t work. I am completely focused on my inner peace.”
“So am I. Completely focused on your inner peace.”
Then we kissed, and my brain was tracking too many things at once: who had started the kiss, how his lips felt, and—very distantly—what I was supposed to be doing in the scene, and that two other people were watching us like we had turned into a bad reality TV show. Paul pulled away gently and shook his head.
“I felt nothing,” he said. I could tell up close that this wasn’t true. His eyes were wide, and his breathing sounded like he’d lifted something heavy and was refusing to admit that he should probably put it down.
“Well, I’ll leave you with Miles, then,” I said, standing up and patting the imaginary cassette flirtatiously. “When you’re alone in your room, lying in bed, you can play this and call me, the next time you want to feel nothingagain.”
And scene. Lisette applauded, and I felt the way I always did after an improv: I wasn’t sure whether it had been good, terrible, or completely silly, which is disorienting for me, since I usually have a pathological fetish about control.
I was feeling something else, too, and I needed to put some distance between Paul and me as quickly as I could. I crossed the room to slide into Paul’s green leather armchair. No big deal, my body language said. Oh, look, a magazine on the table! With trout fishing on the cover!
I caught Mark eyeing the two of us. Mark’s the cynic of the group—smart, dry, a few years older than the rest of us. He raised his eyebrows, and I gave a tight smile.
“Sorry,” I said after a moment.
“Totally your fault,” Paul said. “I blame you entirely.” I realized he was blushing; he has the kind of complexion that makes for a handy barometer of his social angst.
“I could write you a formal letter of apology,” I said.
He nodded, still not quite meeting my eyes. “I’m going to need an essay about consent in improv. Five paragraphs on my desk by morning.” He is a middle school history teacher during the school year, so asking for essays is not completely out of character. He glanced around. “Mark and Lisette, you’re up.”
