“Do you want to see another scene?” The director needs to be taken home on a leash and given a basket.
“I’d love to.”
There are a few mumblings and a cast conference as to what scene to display and then the players ensemble, their modern day clothes and swagger in contrast to the words I know they’re about to speak.
Stars, hide
Your fires;
Let not light see my black and
Deep desires.
The eye wink at the hand, yet let
that be
which the eye fears, when it is
done, to see.
The scene is from early in the play, before Banquo’s death. Before Macbeth is consumed with his ambition and need.
The Scottish play.
Too much resonates.
Ben is close now, heading towards the seats at the front, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, trousers smart-casual. I’m meant to be unaware and immune but I know that my body is awake and remembering. Needing.
He sits next to me; the first time we’ve been in this proximity since I saw him naked in the shower block. The memory is pressed hard on my brain; the image I see when I shut my eyes. Hard chest, the ladder of muscles then leads down to his large, heavy cock.
I shouldn’t be thinking of it when he’s sitting next to me, when I’m an ambassador for my country watching the production of a Shakespearean play. But what are we if not human, with human needs and drives.
“The restaurant is ready when you are.” His words are low, quiet. But he knows I’m not focused on what is happening before us. The heat between our bodies is palpable. Toxic.
I itch to touch him, just a nudge. Contact, any contact. Just something to cease the urge in every synapse.
“They haven’t finished.”
But they do and I applaud. Congratulate them. Make plans, tentative ones, to watch the full play when they’re in Scotland.
Eventually I follow Ben outside, the cameras capturing the smile I’ve applied just for them, answering questions for which I no longer need prompting. More than a decade has taught me how to say what they want to hear without revealing a damn thing.
Ben holds an umbrella over me as we walk, making it clear exactly who he is. There will already be articles about him, studying his build and his face; the firm jaw and the dusting of blonde stubble.
We walk away from the media, the sound of clicks and shutters dimming with the noise of the rain. More security stops them from following us, although now they’ve had a piece of me, their appetite is whetted.
“I should apologise.” It’s the first words Ben’s said to me since we were in the showers.
“What for?”
“The way I spoke to you. And acted. It was inappropriate. I had no right to do what I did.”
He’s considered his words, I can tell. But they don’t ring true.
“Apology accepted.”
I don’t say any more. There’s no need because he knows damn well I haven’t accepted anything. Including why he fucked off with no communication.
