September 7th, 2013
Brooke, the redhead is discussing the differences between farce and improv with Mick. who led the workshop today. Brooke makes the point that agreement isn’t as important in farce as it is in improv. I’m ignorant as to the workings of farce in scene-work, but I’m trying to come up with a comment simply because I want to join the conversation. Suddenly, I’m taken away. The discussion evaporates in less than a second. Grace’s hands are at the top of my back. Her thumbs press in and down. Every muscle in my face goes slack. I’m in heaven. This is all it takes because Grace is God.
I don’t always think Grace is God. There are times when I’m irritated with her. But she’s so damn funny when she’s improvising that negative thoughts disappear like steam in a warm room. The interesting thing is I never know when she’s going to do my back. It’s always a surprise. When the rub begins, I know it’s going to last about five minutes. I waste seven to ten seconds of pure enjoyment worrying about the fact that this is going to end, but I always manage to push the thoughts under the table, where I’m now resting my head. The improv/farce discussion continues, but nothing is interesting enough to get my attention.
Two years ago, for my seventieth birthday, Grace gave me a homemade gift card with ten five-minute massages indicated. As thoughtful as this was, I actually prefer not knowing when or how many times she will do them. I do know the where, though — always at our table at the bar we hang out at.
Twenty years ago we almost started a romance. I’m selfishly glad it didn’t happen. I’ve scuttled too many relationships by turning them into relationships. But I do love Grace. How could I not? Are Brooke and Mick still talking about farce? I have no idea. I have a couple more minutes of Heaven to pay attention to.