A packed carriage, on the way home.
Next to me is a youngish man. We get to chatting, and – it transpires – he’s learning his lines, an audition piece. Somehow, in this short journey, I find myself helping with this task, reading out the lines for the other part.
It’s an extract of just a couple of pages from a play. He doesn’t know where it’s from. It feels Russian, Northern European. Chekhov, perhaps? Strindberg? A pastiche?
Over the course of the scene, the plot thickens. I read deeper into the character. There’s something slightly unseemly in this relationship between the man and his wife, or mistress.
The lines feel slightly compromising. I camp it up a bit. Giggle, aware of the other passengers.
Glasgow Queen Street approaches. The rehearsal ends.
I wonder if he got the part.