Chapter Eleven
“You have any theatre experience?” Benjamin speaking.
I’m on the floor, on the rug where we f****d, reading Tolstoy. Resurrection, a novel I managed to avoid in college. Even Benjamin questioned the choice of such weighty reading during a season like this. But I explained, “It helps if I can absorb myself in something so rich and complex that it drives every other thought from my mind.” He was duly impressed.
In response to his question, I close my book with my finger holding the place, and look up. “Theatre experience? A little, but mostly when I’m teaching…reading plays, that sort of thing. I wouldn’t call it real theatre.”
“Come here, you’ll read Fanny.” He shoves the script toward me, and with eyes wide, I accept it, my hands trembling as I do.
“Don’t look so scared
