Rehearsal

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.

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