thespian: master of puppets

the meeting.

I feel the cool of the fans as I enter the fluorescently lit room, clutching my frank green; along with my hopes and dreams. Blue orbs hidden by golden frames draw me into a state of delirious desperation, my legs shaking as I take a step towards the blonde hunk, who is standing suspiciously in the corner of the crowded room. Biting my lip, we lock eyes, and it seems as though the bustling room has suddenly gone silent.

"Do re mi fa so la ti," the angel sings to himself, pulling his sheet music from his man purse, pretending to understand what it says. I try to compose myself, my pelvis shaking, as he smiles, flashing a wonky row of teeth, as yellow as the paper of his library book that is now available. "C-come here often?" I stutter nervously, a blush rising on my cheeks. He peers down at me, standing tall at 5'5, a devious, yet sensual look in his eyes. He raises a perfectly sculpted brow at me, and in a serious tone says "NIDA auditions don't happen often princess."

I gulp. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I gather my strength and force my brain to form a reply; "I-" I begin, though the blonde babe cuts me off, slipping a finger over my pink, plump lips.

"Shhh, quiet, love." he whispers, "I'm only being silly." He runs a pasty hand through my hair, staring into my terrified eyes. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

I giggle nervously, his sultry voice causing the heat to form between my legs. "Y/n." I respond. He smiles at my obedience, slipping a hand under my chin and tilting my face upwards, giving me a clearer view of his unshaven neck.

"'So tell me, are you going to be a musical theatre major?" He notices the ring on my dainty finger, playing with it as he asks me about my plans at the National Institute of Dramatic Art (215 Anzac Parade, Kensington NSW 2033).

Suddenly, like a cool wind cutting through the intense heat between us, an old lady steps into the room and calls; "H/N?"

It's his audition.

"Sorry, but I have to go now" he whispers into the soft hair behind my ear. I feel him take a deep inhale, taking in the scent of my shampoo and conditioner; coconut and jasmine. I notice the lockscreen of his samsung galaxy s6, a green puppet staring back at me. Chewing on my chapped lip, I look at him with a cheeky look in my eyes. "I want to be your new puppet." I see his face falter, the nerves getting to him. I love it.

"They call me the thespian magnet back home," he smirks, "but you can call me h/n." Winking at me, he collects his items; a black satchel, a blue smash water bottle that leaks each time he picks it up, and his camo headphones that he insists on wearing everywhere instead of investing in airpods - he's the epitome of autism.

"No baby, please don't go" i plead

"I have to honey."

The empty eyes of his lock-screen puppet look gloatingly at me. His phone will be in his pants forever, yet I am restrained by the sheer lack of experience he has when talking to women; he certainly can't put it down as a special skill on his not so extensive resume.

Like Aphrodite, the Olympian goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation, commonly depicted as a beautiful woman accompanied by the winged godling Eros, he graciously exits the room.

I watch his vitruvian hind as it goes towards the stage. His hourglass figure now burned into my cranium, occupying my subconscious, I lean back in my seat, legs open. His posture is awkward, as he waits on his pedestal (on stage); the piano intro to "My Shot" from Hamilton begins to play.

"I am not throwin' away my shot

I am not throwin' away my shot

Hey yo, I'm just like my country