A BARE STAGE WILL SUFFICE

ACT ONE

LIZ:

It was a day at the beach. Literally. That's where it began. On the beach where I headed after the morning session ended, soon as I'd slipped off my shoes.

He hailed me and murmured pleasantries about the sunny afternoon. Then said something to the effect of "So good to get out of there, wasn't it?"

"The conference room," he prompted, as I looked at him blankly.

I hadn't recognized him - understandable, considering there'd been nearly a hundred people. I introduced myself and my firm, and inquired about his.

When Steven said whom he represented, I was mortified. He'd been the keynote speaker!

I covered my blunder best as I could with the blanket excuse of poor vision. I quickly added that his had been the one presentation that had held my interest.

That much was true. Perhaps less for its inherent value than for fortuitous fact: It had been during Steven's speech that I'd chided myself to pay attention for a change. I felt guilty enough to be enjoying a company-paid vacation; the least I could do during requisite events was to attend in mind along with body.

As Steven fell into stride with my brisk step, I managed to say - with feeling - that I had liked his talk. With great intelligence, I offered three specifics - then promptly shut up before I tempted fate to turn me back to stupid.

We must have walked for two hours. We spoke of jobs, families. I was married then, with three young kids. Steven and Susan had two daughters now grown.

Steven had self-started his thriving business, which impressed me. Susan was a writer, which interested as well as impressed. I asked about her work and Steven ruefully replied that she refused to let him see it. She'd written some short stories, none published, and was working on a novel - weren't we all!

I nodded as I told Steven that I could well relate to Susan's being secretive. I'd written five books and couldn't bear to show any to anyone I'd have to face afterwards - particularly my husband.

Steven was floored to hear about my books. I hastened to disabuse him of the notion that any had been published! Nonetheless, he remained impressed, especially so considering I'd written them while contending with a full-time job and three preschoolers.

I quickly deflected credit for - his words - "raising three kids." Obsessed with writing, I'd shut myself away each evening and zoned out my family.

Steven didn't flinch at my dereliction of duty. He assured me that I was entitled to take time for myself, especially doing something productive, something to be proud of.

Like my husband, Steven was an avid mountaineer. Coincidence: two couples; the men hikers, the women writers. Too bad they lived in Arizona.

"Liz," Steven said, gazing earnestly into my eyes, "I know this sounds trite, but I feel like I've known you forever. And I wish we could go on talking forever." He winced at his watch. "My plane leaves at quarter to three."

I nodded my understanding and likewise expressed disappointment that our acquaintance had come to an end. "Don't let me keep you," I said, as I extended my hand.

Steven grasped it. "Quite the reverse," he said. "I wish you could. Don't take this the wrong way, but knowing you and I will never meet again saddens me beyond measure. I'd like a part of you to remember always. Liz, I beg you, let me read one of your books."

Kate, too, had begged with her hangdog face. Had trotted after me for weeks at work, until at last I'd relented. I'd given her my novel in which the main characters - man and woman - were gay. Kate had a flamboyant male friend so I figured my story wouldn't shock her. Indeed, I'd deluded myself that Kate was meant to read my masterpiece.

I'd gone on sick leave shortly after handing Kate my manuscript. At home, feeling lousy, I'd moped, eager for an encouraging word from Kate. A progress report - something. Nothing.

I'd finally written Kate, requesting that she return my manuscript. She promptly did so, dropping it inside my door without stopping in.

When I returned to work the next month, Kate thanked me for letting her read my book. She spoke barely a word to me thereafter.

Was she uncomfortable because she thought my work was poorly written? I wondered. Was she embarrassed because she never bothered to read it? Or was it that "I" was a lesbian and so she'd better give me a wide berth -- especially in the Ladies' Room!

I never found out, and never would. That was three jobs ago, but it still rankled. Looking at Steven, as he pleaded, time pressing for my answer, I had a moment to decide: Dare I trust again?

I stalled, shared my painful story about Kate. I acknowledged that he doubtless had the best of intentions, but that, realistically, given his whirlwind work life, did he really have time to read my book?

I forced myself to meet Steven's eyes, despite my face flushing in anticipation of the explicit metaphor I struggled to form. "Suppose a guy pretends to love a woman just to get sex. Imagine how shamed she'd feel afterwards, for having given herself to the sleaze."

"Steven," I said, "For a writer, exposing her work is baring her very soul. I trusted wrongly once. It tore me apart. I couldn't bear it a second time."

Steven assured me he understood. I thought he would cease his entreaties; instead he resumed them. "Now, more than ever, I'm desperate to read you book. All your books! I would never hurt you like that, especially after Kate. Please?"

How cruel would I be to deny a man his "last" wish!

And so, as promised, I sent my manuscript to Steven's business address. I enclosed the brass pendant he'd admired, with a note telling him to give it to Susan with regards from a fellow writer.

Steven called the very next day, as I'd known he would. "Got it," he exclaimed with jubilation, as if he'd won a prize. "I'm on page five already. Can't wait to continue. I'll keep you posted."

I relished each day, knowing it got me that much closer to when I'd hear from Steven. After a couple of weeks elapsed without word, I figured he was savoring my story and was waiting until he finished.

Tow months later it came. Although not fat enough to contain the manuscript - I'd told Steven he could keep the copy - the envelope's heft indicated a meticulous response, a profuse outpouring of how my words had affected him.

I hoisted my letter-knife in anticipation. The moment of mystery solved had arrived, just a cut to the quick away.

I slashed open the envelope. To find Steven's company quarterly newsletter and stock report. Apparently, by attending the conference, I got on their mailing list.

How I wish that somewhere, somehow, I'd see Steven again. Just one last time. Just long enough to look him in the eye and say sweetly: Read any good books lately?"




ACT TWO

Steven:

Truth is, I made an ass of myself. That itself wasn't the end of the world. I knew we'd never see each other again, so if it were only a matter of my having made a couple of reckless remarks, it's not as if I'd have to face her in the morning, so to speak.

But this business about begging her to send herbook - I should have kept my stupid mouth shut.

How could I have been so nervy, badgering this woman I'd just met, especially when she was mortified to have anyone see it. I of all people should know how touchy writers can be. Hell, my own wife won't let me look at her work.

It's not like I could have offered practical assistance. I'm not a publisher, or agent, and I wasn't about to call upon Susan's contacts. No, my purpose was pure self-interest.

In my defense, I should say I had genuine admiration for her. Managing family and work while writing - not one, but five - books like it was no big deal. Whereas Susan moaned about her "labor" pains despite grown kids and no real job - her hobby had yet to earn her a dime.

I admit I was a little flattered by her attention. True, she seemed almost as eager to hear about Susan than about me, but that was understandable, given that they both liked to write. She wanted to know all about my business; I could tell she was impressed that I built it from ground zero. Ok, so she hadn't recognized me from the conference at first, but I'm kind of a non-descript brown-brown-and-balding guy. Still, it was clear she had listened carefully to my speech, judging from her savvy remarks as we walked the shore.

It was luck to run into her, both of us hitting the beach right then. I recognized her from the reception the evening before. Everyone else was cotton casual - she was in electric-blue silk. And dancing. Alone, mostly, since few others had the nerve - least of all me.

I'd have to be plastered to the wall before I'd dare take the floor. I envied her confidence. Dancing to her must be like rock-climbing to me - the ultimate high. How I longed to join her.

But being the next-day's featured speaker, I couldn't risk drawing undue attention, much less getting drunk and hungover. The morning of, I had a couple to steel myself, Then afterwards a few to unwind, since, what the hell, all that's left was hop a cab, catch my plane, and crash, so to speak.

So, sure, I had a six pack under my belt - by my own fault of course - which maybe accounts for my running my mouth as I did. And why I fawned over her as I had. Hung on her every word. Been almost flirtatious.

I didn't mean anything by it - I mean, I never would do anything. I've been faithful to Susan all these years, honestly. It was because I knew that nothing was going to happen - that I'd never see her again - that I'd clung to the promise of her book.

I regretted it right afterwards. Well, not right away - but during the flight even before the booze had worn off I was already kicking myself.

I hoped she'd chicken out about sending it and let us both off the hook.

As I feared, she kept her word - which, I wince to remember, I extracted under duress. Her manuscript arrived by priority mail Tuesday morning. Along with an effusive note and a brooch offered as token to my wife.

I phoned, of course - there was no way around it, not if I had any decency. Right away, to get it over with, I dialed her office, praying for voicemail.

No such luck. She picked up. I thanked her with all the enthusiasm I could muster. I told her I'd read a few pages already, which was true. I figure I'd owed her that much - besides I was curious.

It was too soon to tell, really, if I would have held my interest. Perhaps, when I get a chance, I'll pick it up again. When I get a chance.