Free I Loved You Wednesday by David Marlow

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    Riding the subway to the Village, I meet Chris for lunch. Afterward I go with her to the audition she has for a new musical revue about life in New York called Another Straw!
    She sings two songs, reads a monologue from one of the skits, improvises a dance routine for them inspired by a diffident drummer who beats out a monotonous rhythm, is thanked, and the two of us leave.
    Traveling in the crowded subway back uptown, Chris and I compare notes on how our various auditions went this day. When we get to my place, we relax for a few hours before going into the kitchen to cook some dinner.
    “I’m so depressed!” Chris tells me, tossing the pasta into boiling water.
    “What about?” I ask, as if I didn’t know.
    “Oh, lots of things.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    “Like that audition this afternoon. I sang, I read, gave them everything outside of standing there naked with my hair on fire, and they were so unresponsive.”
    “A quick thank you and ‘Who’s next?,’ huh?”
    “Practically.”
    “Well, it doesn’t pay to get worked up about it. You just never know what’s going on in their minds.”
    “Or what they’re looking for.”
    “Right. Chris, I’ve had producers react so enthusiastically to an audition they did everything but burst into applause. And afterward I’d never hear from them. Other times I’ve done really shitty work and got called back the next day.”
    “It’s a lousy business.”
    “The worst.”
    “So why do we do it, Steve?”
    “We do it because we’re crazy and because we love to perform and because it’s there.”
    “When I make it to the top, I’m never going to forget the little people.”
    “You’re too humble; that’s one of your problems.”
    “And what about Bradley?”
    “I had a hunch we’d get around to that. All right, what about him?”
    “He hasn’t called or anything.”
    “Chris,” I say somewhat exasperatedly, spooning the tomato paste into the sauce, “you only saw him yesterday.”
    “If he’s playing it cool when I’m dying to see him, I’ll be very upset.”
    “He may not call for days.”
    “I’ll kill myself.”
    “I don’t blame you.”
    “Pass the salt.”
    I hand Chris the salt.
    “Stick out your tongue.”
    “I beg your pardon.” “I said stick out your tongue.” Chris demonstrates by sticking out her own tongue.
    So I stick out my tongue.
    “Now open wide and say Ahhhhhhhh.”
    “Chris, this is silly.”
    “Do as I say!”
    “ Ahhhhhhhhhhhh”
    “That’s good!” And, saying so, Chris dumps the entire contents of the salt shaker, of which she has just unscrewed the top, right on my tongue.
    I am a thirty-year-old person. A serious student of the drama. And I am now standing in front of a hot stove with a mountain of salt on my tongue.
    Hurrying over to the sink, I spit out most of it, then gargle with a glass of water. When I am at last able to speak, I turn to Chris, who looks like a contented cow, and criticize, “A bit too salty, I think. Could hardly taste the spaghetti.”
    “Serves you right for even joking about Bradley not calling me,” retorts Chris playfully, placing the spaghetti strainer on her head and saluting.
    Not to be outdone, I pick up a head of lettuce, stuff it down the front of my pants and return the idiotic salute.
    Giggling, Chris rushes from the kitchen, returning moments later from the bathroom with a container of my shaving cream. “Why hasn’t he called me, Steve?” She pouts. “I can’t stand it!”
    “He will. Just relax,” I say, placatingly, barely noticing the slightest impatience in my voice.
    Chris stiffens her upper lip, rolls her eyes and launches into her Stan Laurel. “And what’s more, Ollie ... I didn’t like that crack about the mustard seed!” As she speaks, she covers the top of my head in oozing shaving foam. “Take that, you rat!” she continues, dramatically. “The very idea he may not call for days. Steven, you’re awful. Just awful!”
    My