dumpling

We were producing this South African play and the playwright came from Jo-berg to see it. It was the dead of winter in Montreal and all the girls were tired of the drama boys and we anxiously anticipated the writer's arrival. He had written this crazy beautiful play: part Brechtian history lesson, part opera, part sexy comedy.

When he showed up he was poorly dressed for the weather. He was fat and bearded and awkward in his light sports jacket. We sat at that man's feet and hung off of every word he said. He would snatch alone time with each of us - critique our performance and then try to kiss us. We were defeated but we remained respectful. In retrospect, I can't imagine why.

The writer reminded me of a man I met in highschool when my family was living in Italy. He was fat and bearded and alone and he bought us sweets. My friend and I lied and told him we went to a school where only people with green or blue eyes could go. He pretended to believe us. In line for the ice cream, he held my hand and pressed it against his crotch. I stood there not looking at him as he rubbed the back of my hand up and down on the coarse fabric of his pants. We waited until we got our ice creams to ditch him. And I didn't care what anyone thought of me. Unlike with the writer, that defeat was worth it.