Act I
The Meet-Cute . . .
Rory
People are chatting among themselves in small groups, everyone occupying the first three rows of the small theater that looks like it’s been dipped in dollar store décor.
I’ve never seen so many glitter hearts and paper Cupids in my life. It’s a maximalist’s love nightmare. And my personal one.
But our professor—if that’s what you can call him (I prefer sadist)—decided our midterm would not only be early ...on Valentine’s Day ...but also a cold read of Shakespeare’s most romantic plays.
Why?is the only correct response.
Not only is it something we’ve never done, but as an added bonus, he’s randomly pairing us up to act out these scenes for his sadistic entertainment ... Onstage, under a fake starry sky, with a balloon arch that says,I love you beary much, and a spotlight.
I’m calling 911is an understatement of my emotion.
Because not only am I single for this day of commercialized affection, but apparently I’m doomed to swap spit with the dumpster fire that are the guys in here on said day.
What did I do in a past life to deserve this?
I grumble next to my best friend, Cece, still internally blaming her for the tragedy about to befall my life as I roll my eyes at the paper candy hearts taped to the front of the stage.
They should all just say,Me too, because this whole day constitutes harassment.
“You’re in so much trouble for this,” I whisper. “I should’ve never listened to you.”
She chuckles, ignoring me.
But she knows I’m right. She swore this was the easiest of A’s. Just a few weeks of analyzing plays. The kind of brain-off class that would allow us to soak up the last memories of college before our journey of adulthood ... blah, blah, blah. I knew better than to trust an English major, they’re too good at romanticizing everything. Still, I followed her lead and registered. And look where that got me.
“Oh, come on ... this could be fun,” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “I mean, maybe Cupid will shoot his arrow at one of us.”
My face whips to hers, and I stare, just blinking, before I say, “Cupid ... in this class? Gaslighter. Now I see you for who you really are. You’re a monster.”
Another chuckle.
She can laugh all she wants, but this midterm is about to be my thirteenth reason.
I let out a heavy breath. “I swear to you, I will never forgive you if I drawRomeo and Juliet. I might even write a complaint to the school. What kind of midterm requires you to kiss a stranger? It’s gross.”
“I basically failed statistics, but what are the chances you get it? There’s only one script that has a kiss. What’s that, like, one in a thousand?”
“Are you serious? Cece ... one in eight,” I deadpan. “And if I have to kiss one of these vermin, I might put cyanide in your cereal.”
This time she gives me a smirk. I hate it when she enjoys my annoyance. It’s so disrespectful. For god’s sake, she knows the gene pool of men we’re being subjected to. Forget R and J, these men are the true tragedy, and she has the audacity to say it could be fun.
No ... I’d literally rather lick pavement than be up close and personal with any of them. I mean, come on ... not today. Of all the days.
Of the seven guys in this class, three of them, at twenty-two years old, think that it’s funny to make erotic noises on the class Zoom calls as if nobody knows they did it.We know and it’s not.
Another guy, who asked my name today by calling memiladyfirst, has the kind of halitosis that begs for a full diet reboot ... Something else I don’t want to know about him.
Then there’s Flip-Flops ... What kind of monster leaves his dogs out for the world to see? There’s so much hair on his toes that I will see it in my nightmares.
I’m already shivering just thinking about it.
But my least favorite male common denominators are bad facial hair and one-inch ...
