Filed under WOD

4 responses to “Grapes

  1. bedlam1313

    Why-why-why must I put my hands on her? What is compelling me? I know I would call Jeff to let him know and giggle with spittle and a receding hairline. I suppose that is motivation enough. Yet, they are just breasts. And once I put my hands on them, then what? Look for more? Sleep on them? Name them after my favorite punk rockers? What if she does not like my gropes of consequence?

    “Hey,” she politely interrupts, and I swear she is thrusting her chest outwards like the rings of Jupiter just to enhance me, “the word is ‘grapes’ not ‘gropes’.

    I am first relieved and then worried. Grapes don’t scare me as much as breasts, but she can read my mind. I am going to ask her about time travel.

  2. Surly Temple

    I’m launching into the Last Week Before the Production Opens. This means that pretty much all my brain waves are focused on trying to remember everything that I need to do between now and then. When I lie in bed at night I make mental lists of things that have to happen, props that have to be found, costumes finished, sets painted. Of course, I never ever EVER actually get up and write them down–that would be productive, and it’s much better to fly into frantic, screaming-in-the-night panic when you jerk yourself out of a dead sleep to think “I FORGOT TO BUY THE PLASTIC GRAPES AND SHOT GLASSES!!!!”

    Unfortunately, a lot of my parties cause me to wake with the same thoughts.

  3. stewartparker

    “Let them eat grapes,” Lyndsey said, with feeling.
    “Who are you talking about?” Rachel queried, now suddenly a little bit curious, in spite of herself.
    “You know. ‘Them.’ Let ‘them’ eat grapes. This famous person said it,” Lyndsey proffered, reaching absently for her wig.
    “Who said it? I don’t think any famous person said that.”

    Had Lyndsey finally gone crazy? No, Lyndsey had always been crazy. There really wasn’t any place to go.

    Of course, she shouldn’t have said anything. But she couldn’t help herself. It probably didn’t register anyway. When Lyndsey got like this, she probably didn’t even hear you. Hear anything really, except maybe the imaginary ovation she was already anticipating in her head, or her own inner-monologue: “curtsy or bow? curtsy or bow?”

    Ten minutes until rehearsal, and Rachel was stuck, again, listening to Lyndsey’s prima donna hyper-babble.

    “She said it. This famous person. A long time ago, maybe. ‘Let them eat grapes.’ I don’t remember the exact setting, but it was something very regal. Don’t I look regal? Anyway, it’s one of my lines tonight: ‘Let them eat grapes!'”

    She had to admit, it did sound familiar, but not quite right. Why had she signed up for this again? Oh yes, her mother had told her that she needed to be more involved, and it was this or field hockey. She didn’t do field hockey.

    Theatre had always intrigued her, but with only a few weeks until the performance, all the parts were taken, and she had had to settle for this. Backstage Jane-of-all-trades. Sounding board to the stars.

    “Two minutes, ladies,” the sound guy said, popping his ear-phoned head back out just as quickly as it had come in.
    “Help me with this dress, would you? I swear it weighs 100 pounds. But don’t we look pretty?”

    Rachel assumed the request for help was aimed at her, but the rest seemed to have been directed to Lyndsey’s reflection in the mirror. Maybe she had gone crazy.

    The dress was heavy, and as they made their way up the stairs to the stage, Rachel felt as though she were drowning in taffeta and lace.

    “I can take it from here,” Lyndsey insisted. “You’ve been helpful enough.”
    “Break a leg,” Rachel replied, and meant it. Then she took her seat with the rest of the crew.

    “There she is, our lovely leading lady herself,” the director cooed. “It wouldn’t be ‘Marie Antoinette- The Musical’ without you.”

    Marie Antoinette. Marie Antoinette. And suddenly it registered. Maybe tonight’s rehearsal was going to be interesting after all.

  4. memory ghost

    We roamed the aisles at half-past ten, flourescent bulbs buzzing above frozen food: Ben & Jerry’s, pizza, peas. We ended up in produce, because that is the only place we could end up (you never hear about anything exciting happening in the dairy department). Our prize captured, we headed out into the night. Midnight park. Jungle gym confessions. Swing stories. Munching grapes and philosophically contemplating happiness, but in a casual way. That was us. And it always has been.

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