Ophelia 29

I am Ophelia. I am twenty-nine, and I say other people's lines until the curtain, and then I want my own mouth back. Lewis is my husband. He is thirty-four. He asked me to let Marco see me in the dressing-room mirror, and he asked to listen while we talked about it, plain and dirty, no scene to hide inside. Marco is thirty-seven. He is an actor I trust, and he fucks the way he listens, which is all the way. I said yes. I like the bulbs. I like a black slip and a robe that is already open. I like Lewis in the chair at the edge of the glass, hearing every word he asked me not to swallow. He is not a bit part in this. He is the man who requested the play and then stayed for it.