Rosaline Honeycock

It’s been difficult at times, but I’m doing a lot better now. Thanks for asking, Chris, and thank you for wishing me a speedy recovery. I really appreciate it. And just between us — one aspiring actress to another — you could use a little work on your accents. Oh, and I’m still crazy about you. Do with that information as you please. I don’t expect you to reciprocate the sentiment. You’ve never been the type to. It’s just that last week I was reminded of something: I can’t withdraw your heart from mine.

It was a Tuesday, and it was drizzling outside like sleepy kittens and overweight puppies. We had just returned from intermission when Oliver rolled up the curtains to reveal me hunched over a tap alongside Mary, clothed in a billowing dress and leather corset. Mary kept turning the tap on to let out handfuls of water, immersing my hands and sprinkling my face with the murky liquid. “Water” she would say excruciatingly slow, stretching out the two syllables to make the task of mimicking her a little easier. “This water, dumby.” I kept trying to repeat the word, chewing the vowels and spitting them out. The result sounded like something akin to a Chinese immigrant doing a bad Christopher Walken impression. After an hour of repeating the word without break, Mary grew restless with my lack of progress and dumped the bucket over my head. She left offstage, hands thrown in the air with frustration, a string of curses emanating from her lips. The audience gasped. Shock crept over the theater like thunder, stealing the collective breath of all who attended. My nipples were erect and clearly visible beneath my wet clothes. I was late on my period and wasn’t wearing a bra. I quickly covered myself with my numb hands and hid behind a cardboard cutout of you.

Terribly flaccid, wet, and alone — even in my darkest moment you were there by my side, shielding me from the cruel eyes of the world. After a moment of despair I steeled myself with a deep breath, stood up, and resumed the show seemingly unperturbed. And it was all because of you. You and those kind, pale blue eyes of yours. You were there for me when no one else was. If our short time together meant nothing at all to you, know that it did and still does to me. Know that you’re still number one on my playlist in the tracklisting of my heart, and above all else, Chris, always remember to look both ways before crossing, ‘cause love is a two-way street, and getting hit may reduce you to a pair of crutches, a damaged spirit, and a new-found love for Janet Jackson.