We make small talk about nothing for another twenty minutes. As I’m leaving, he asks, “How’s Andrew doing? You know, if he’s ever…unhappy with his management, send him to me.”
I nod. “I will.” I gather my purse.
Andrew was a dedicated student of the Meisner technique in Toronto. The teacher, the guru of his class, was like his second father. Actors sit in chairs and repeat single sentences to each other, sometimes only words.
“Fuck.” “Fuck.”
“You’re wearing a black shirt.” “I’m wearing a black shirt,” and so on. I never understood the benefit. I always thought it was a cult.
“Doesn’t it get old?” I’d ask him.
But now, having the word “Andrew” said to me countless times a day, I understand. My repeating it back elicits strange reactions that even I couldn’t predict. Pride. Jealousy. Sadness. Heart palpitations.
But strangest of all, is that after saying it a hundred times, it began to feel true.
My reality is now a Meisner exercise of my boyfriend’s name.
“Maybe you should get a tan,” my manager tells my back as I’m walking out of his office.
I ask the cab to drive the long way to my meeting.
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