"Lights," I hear from the small speaker in the corner of the room. I check my dress in the mirror and notice the stain on the hem. Too late to do anything about it now. I'll have to tell the costume crew after the show tonight.
You come into the dressing room doing up your tie, just as you have done a hundred times this run, focused on the knot. You run into the door frame.
"Fuck!" you exclaim, and I frown at you.
"Shh!!" I say. You look up at me, walk over to where I am standing, and wrap your arms around me, pressing your mouth to mine. It takes me by surprise and I don't move for a moment, but you ease up on the pressure and open your mouth a little. My breath hitches as the kiss deepens; your hand comes to my cheek, and your head tilts to the side. Your tongue touches mine. I make a small sound as I push my tongue into your mouth. I press my body into yours.
I swore I wasn't going to do this again.
You bring your hand up and cup my breast, brushing your thumb over my nipple. I moan a little, quietly and into your mouth. I feel a hot flash of anger in my chest, and break away from you.
"Fuck you," I say, and you lean in to kiss me harder.
The first time we fucked backstage, it was borne of sheer frustration. You were missing your cue night after night, and the stage manager was losing her mind. It was making me lose my place, too, throwing off the rhythm of our onstage kiss, so I stayed in the green room after the show one night to talk to you about it. We hadn't spoken very often outside of rehearsals. Something about you made me nervous; you had an energy that felt tightly held, like a clenched fist.
"When you come onstage after the second music cue, that's too late," I said to you then. You looked at me with narrow eyes. "You barely have time to look at me. It means the kiss seems all wrong!" I said. You shrugged. You started putting your things in your bag, ignoring me.
"The line isn't landing. That line needs to land. They have to believe it," I said, my voice tense. You still didn't answer or turn around to look at me.
"What are you even doing that is making you late? Smoking a cigarette? Trying to tie up your shoes? Jerking off?" I said. You laughed as I spat the last accusation at you.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" you asked me then, back to me. And no, I didn't want to know, but I hated that things didn't feel right, that you didn't care about the scene.
I gave you a little shove to the shoulder. You turned around, facing me, eyes to the ground.
"Fuck you," I said, and shoved you again. A little spark went through me when you brought your eyes up to mine. You looked at me like my admonition was a challenge, a dare, and not the words of an irritated co-worker.
I brought my hand up to shove you a third time, and you caught my wrist. You pulled me in. You held me close, your face close to mine, as I fought you a little, pulling on my arm to free it. But I wasn't fighting you hard, and you knew it. You leaned in to kiss my neck, and I softened. Your breath was warm, your lips soft. You eased my dress from my shoulder and kissed me there. You reached behind and unzipped the dress, tugging the neckline below my breasts. You teased my nipples with your tongue. By the time you had my dress around my waist, I was weak with lust and would have done anything to feel you inside me.
We fucked on the floor that first time, my dress half on, and I had to lie and tell the costume crew that my dress was dirty because I had stepped on it when I undressed that night.
Now, I hear the applause that means the first act is finished. There is a short intermission. Most actors will go into the larger green room for the break, but I am listening for footsteps outside the door anyway.
