Typing in Circles : A Jesse Eisenberg fanfiction

4

     I sat on my recliner, if it could even be called that, sideways, with my legs slung over the arm rest. Ink, my own writing, printed freshly only a few inches from my face. The papers were still warm as my eyes read what I thought to be embarrassingly awful. Jesse sat on the other side of the coffee table, reading the first act. I had the second one.

"I like this, you know. Don't be so quiet about it." He told me, leaning towards me, his elbows on his knees.
"I just think it needs a lot of work. It's not producing material."
"Of course it is. If we waited until writers thought their material was 'ready' there would never be any plays being performed here in New York. The most creative of people always seem to be intrudingly mortified by their own work." I shrugged as he put the papers on to the coffee table.
"I mean, maybe. But still."
"Would it make you feel better to read some of my own writing?"
"That's totally not the same thing."
"How isn't it? Enlighten me?" A smirk formed on his lips. I spun around, tossing the papers on to the coffee table as well.
"Because...because your stuff was already performed. You've already 'made it'."

He chuckled lightly. "Made it? I've hardly made it."
"Are you joking? You're even acting."
"I've hardly made it Evelyn." Hearing my name made me smile.
"You can't be self-conscious knowing your work has been successful."
"Has it really?"
"Would you be helping me direct this bullshit if you weren't?"

     He chuckled again. The sound of it made me beam again. "Possibly. You don't think I'm confident, do you? Is that what I come across as? Confident? Because if that's the case, you may want to check in on your perceptions of people. Even my mother tells me I look sulky, and apologetic."
"You? What would you be apologetic for?"
"How awful my final drafts continue to be? That you have to talk to me about it, endorse me in it?"
We both laughed. "I guess I'll have to read some of it then?"

"If you must. Please restrain from telling me your thoughts and opinions of it."
"What? That'd be totally unfair. Here you are critiquing my work and—"
"Do you know why I don't make myself known online?" He cut me off.

"Uh, because, who has time for all that?" My eyes squinted at him sarcastically.
He laughed. "Because I don't need reviews and assholes making me more self-conscious than I already am. Who needs more anxiety? As if." He scoffed jokingly.
I stood, giggling. "Can we take a break? You have enough notes don't you?" He looked down at his little yellow notepad. "I mean, we'll go over those ideas another time, yeah?"
"Yeah, see how much they match up with your visions." He nodded.
"I'm hungry, are you hungry?"
"I'm a little hungry. Not going to fib."
"Who says fib?"
"I say fib, not gonna lie." He teased.

     I made my way to the kitchen, suddenly sort of grateful I made time to go food shopping this week. I wanted him to stay for dinner. I heard his footsteps follow me and I turned to see him leaning in the doorway, adjusting his glasses. I couldn't help but let the corners of my mouth curl.

"Do you want to grab something to eat?" He asked.
"Why do we have to deal with the crowded streets of Manhattan when I can just make something here?" I questioned lightly, testing the waters.
"Oh, I uh, I didn't want to be intrusive, you know? I just figured—"
"Nonsense. I'll make some stuffed peppers." My smile felt like it was glowing.
"I don't eat—"
"Meat, I know. We went over this." I giggled. "You can stuff peppers with things that aren't ground meat you know." I pretended to roll my eyes at him.

"Well, I mean, if it means I don't have to touch a stove, sure." He shrugged sitting at a small, very small, rounded table off to the side. His eyes wondered around the kitchen. "Are those records?"
"Hm?" I turned and followed his eyes to see him looking up at a ledge by a window. "Oh, yeah, I guess so. I probably never put them back."
"Can I take a look?"
"Sure. The player is in the other room. There should be more underneath it." There's CDs in there too. I motioned to the little CD player off to the side on the counter. "Yes, I enjoy music while I cook. Don't judge me."
"I would never!" He exclaimed sarcastically through chuckles. He walked out, with the records in hand. "Hey! What in the world! I'm not the only one in Manhattan who listens to Ween?"