Love's Labour

Christopher stomps forward towards the stage.

“Bah! This meant to be a tragedy of romance, but you just keep making it a comedy of errors.”

First the scenery was a fiasco and now his Juliet is squeamish about the possibility of having to kiss Romeo. Amateurs! Amateurs; therein lies the rub, working with amateurs. He was made for greater things than trying to wrangle the beauty of Shakespeare out of pubescent mouths. Bah, what whinging through reminiscence breaks? Ah, but it is his Juliet once again. Of course,

“…but him? Can’t we just, like, I dunno, high five or something?”

“You certainly cannot! It is the highest point of tragedy. The relationship, their very story, will end the way it started. You see the…” and gone. His wisdom becomes lost. Mere background noise to the cacophony of incessant instant messages. Juliet’s eyes downcast to the screen of the cursed beast to which all youths are enslaved. How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child. Christopher turns instead to the gangly Romeo. “The art of stage kissing….”

“Mr Benside! A moment if you please.”

Again, with the interruptions. An unwelcome one at that. “Yes? Ms errr….”

Enter Ms Rosaline Capps, a no-nonsense principal, strides forwards, a harried Miss Adriana Puck, in her wake.

Ah and here was that harpy, that meddling head person, and his angel.

“Miss Puck here has said you need more money for this play of yours. Not only that but you’re wanting to run extra rehearsals for it during class time?”

If looks could kill, the body count would be rising thanks to her glare. Christopher’s blood pressure certainly was.

“Ms errr…” Christopher’s grey moustache bristles as he gestures towards the stage and throws his script down dramatically. He silently pats himself on the back for his flair for the dramatic. “You have given me a shoestring budget to produce one of the great masterpieces of literature. Not only that but the talent you’ve given me to work with require far more than the pitiful two hours of rehearsal each week you have given me. Furthermore….”

“Enough Mr Benside. You have what you have. I already have half a mind to cancel this with all the complaints I’ve received. Either the performance goes ahead on the fifteenth with no further demands or it gets cancelled. Your choice.”

An exasperated Ms Capps turns and strides back the way she came and exits.

Less of a stride and more of a graceless march, Christopher muses. Speaking of grace, this leaves his wondrous muse behind. Soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun. No, not Juliet. That wasn’t her name. Never mind. After all, that which we call a rose by any other word would smell as sweet. Ah so delightful, a maid that paragons all descriptions. It is for her Christopher is doing this after all. Poor thing became enamoured after seeing him on stage and just had to employ his talent. He decides he needs to keep his sights fixed upon his muse to help him weather the slings and arrows of this amateur production. It is-

“…and that’s all there is to it really.”

Christopher suddenly notices his beloved damsel has been speaking whilst he has been lost in his thoughts. Not only that, but he also realises that the stage is now empty of the school bags and youths that had been trespassing on it not long ago.

“Chris?”

Christopher visibly winces. “Christopher, my dear. Christopher.”

“Christopher. I know I asked you on such short notice. You really have done the school an enormous favour coming to work with our kids, to help with the show for the March Madness festival.”

Another wince. “Directing the show, my dear. Directing”

“Well, yes, okay then. Directing the show to get it ready by the fifteenth and all but you’ve got to understand there have been a lot of complaints from students and teachers alike. Ignoring schedules and not allowing toilet or drink breaks. Do you even know the name of the person playing Juliet? Or Romeo?”

“I cannot tell what the dickens his name is. It’s not important anyway.” A dismissive wave of a beringed hand. “The lady doth protest too much me thinks. All the world’s a st-”

“Fire!” Wide eyed, she points to the stage behind him towards the lights, “we need to get out of here.”

      As a fire alarm sounds, Adriana rushes a stammering Christopher out the side door in a most unfitting manner and exits.

Christopher finds himself milling around outside with the unlucky masses who had to stay late for whatever reason in this cursed pubescent prison. He starts muttering about cursed plays and the Ides of March. He looks around for his Sun who apparently had lots of other business to attend to. Ahh there she is. My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun, he thinks with amusement as he closes the gap. “There you are my dear. Now, shall we away to dinner?”

“Dinner? What do you mean?”

Christopher chuckles. “Ah brevity is the soul of wit, but there is no need to hide your admiration.”

“Look, Chris, I…”

Wince.

“Christopher. I’m….err… flattered. I really am-…”

“Of course you are my dear” Christopher is radiating magnanimous condescension.

“But I’m really not interested. You aren’t my type, and the age gap would just be…”

“But… but, my dear, you said we must get out. I assumed you meant to a more suitable clime for us”

“I meant out of the burning auditorium. You wouldn’t know anything about a script thrown near the stage lights now, would you?”

“You said you had seen me on stage. You said I was just the person you were looking for.”

“To help the school out. We needed someone who knows the craft but has time they can spend teaching it to the kids. The others were excited to help but were just far too booked out. They suggested you would be available.”

Red faced; Christopher seems to visibly inflate. “What?!! Et tu Brute? How dare you! I see you look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it.”

This dialogue starts to engage an audience. Although a fan of centre stage, Christopher is not a fan of a spectacle. He decides the better part of valour is discretion and decides to make a dignified exit. A parting line full of all the courtesy and grace he could muster, that’s what he needs. “What is past is prologue. It seems I am one who loved not wisely but too well. Farewell my dear.”

Head held high; he sweeps away towards the school gates. Out of sight, Christopher stomps down the path towards his car. “Bah!”

        Exuent, Toyota Prius.