Constipations

Trevor invites me to Putt-Putt.
What I don't realize is that the Putt-Putt is in hell.
We enter. It's dark. Suddenly blinded by floodlights, we find ourselves staring down the maw of a craggy multi-leveled expanse of ebony Astroturf.
I glance down. Horror. Apparently the dress code for this particular Putt-Putt is skinny jeans. Skinny jeans and a BLOUSE. I glance over at Trevor. Fucker. He's wearing his own comfortable jeans and a flannel that looks soft as a baby soul.
No clubs; no balls. Just a dumpster. Hmm. We'll have to talk to each other.
I encourage Trevor to try and lick his elbow. Because I can. He is initially reluctant, but after a few thwarted attempts to evade me, his teensy competitive streak gets the better of him and he tries. He fails. This is not surprising. Fleetingly I am reminded of countless rounds of pool he's sent swirling down the toilet despite my unflagging support and encouragement. But that's a reminiscence which could take all night, and the show's only an hour. I offer Trevor a drink. He tells me he has a wife. I poke fun at his chosen profession. He tells me some elaborate yarn about pranksters thieving trash bags of honey out of his apartment which I don't believe for a second and then suddenly we both feel compelled to have a very serious italicized conversation without moving our arms.
Once that's done with, we decide we really must take some action regarding whether or not to continue hanging out. There's excessive waffling, but unfortunately no real waffles--though mention is made of toast.
Suddenly- an idea! Wouldn't it be fun, we think, to see which of us can pretend to be the drunkest? We've both had experience with vodka, and while Trevor's a wee bit taller than I, I am a wee bit older than he, so it should be a pretty good match-up. Immediately we both hit the deck. Hmm. Our instincts remain solidly in sync. I wobble and giggle. Trevor claws at the Astroturf. So far a tie. I pull ahead with a blistering monologue featuring many multi-syllabic science-specific vocabulary words and am thinking I've got this in the bag when Trevor, playing dirty, interrupts by bringing up sex- of all things- and I am momentarily distracted. 'Cause it's been a while.
I decide to call his bluff. I inch onto the top tier of Astroturf and move very close to Trevor's face, valiantly continuing with my physics recitative. Making a bold play to dismantle him completely, I kiss him. Ha! That shut him up. I am pridefully moving forward with my monologue and enjoying the heady aura of triumph wafting over me when he KISSES ME BACK.
Damn it.
An eye for an eye- I grab fistfuls of his shirt (which damn him- really is as soft as I'd feared) and mash my mouth against his. He mashes back. Things are heading swiftly toward an irrefutable stalemate when we both suddenly realize that this kiss isn't in the script and sheepishly break apart to continue on with Maggie's original blocking.
We decide we need a break. Having now touched mouths, we feel comfortable enough with each other to rehash uncomfortable moments from our past relationships. We reminisce in detail about occasions wherein we'd mistreated- or been mistreated by- various exes. I tell him about the time I came home from work to find my boyfriend sitting on the floor because he was so nervous to tell me he'd been sleeping with a victim of alopecia. He tells me about the time some short, bushy-haired ex of his slapped him properly across the face for not returning her text messages. He is quick to follow this with the disclaimer that, while that slap stung, it didn't come close to comparing with the slaps of one Kelly Kennedy.
But enough with the doldrums. I have it on good authority from Trevor himself that he does not know how to waltz. This strikes me as unacceptable, given that he is very excellent at singing and acting and interested in pursuing musical theatre. I can teach him this. After 90 full seconds of focused dance intensive, I realize I am not as good at waltzing as I thought, as all we have nailed is standing very close together and occasionally leaning from side to side. We decide to abandon this pursuit, as we are both friends with Patti d'Beck and confident she can teach us any dance we need to know.
Having grown weary of seeing how cakey my under-eye concealer looks in the reflection of Trevor's glasses, I ask him to please cross to the far side of the Putt-Putt. That's much better. Now I can see the lights reflected in his glasses. He totally looks like a cyborg! He humors my glee and we run through a portion of a later scene from these positions so I can enjoy pretending I'm in "Terminator II."
In return for his being so accommodating, I agree to let him try and convince me to abandon my lifelong aversion to wearing rings. He makes several valiant attempts, but only succeeds when he cleverly employs the tactic of standing far away from me as he tries to convince me so that I am once again hypnotized by those darn lights reflecting off his glasses.
Maggie, having been watching us goof off this entire time, and being a very talented directress, calls a temporary end to our shenanigans. If we ever want to go home, she says, we have to deliver some really heavy acting. First, we must pretend to have nervous breakdowns and hug each other. Trevor and I exchange trepidatious glances. The nervous breakdowns we can handle. The hugging each other? Questionable. We've gotten more notes on that in rehearsal than we have hairs on our heads. And that's saying something. Maggie continues. IF we make it that far, she would like us to perform an entire chunk of the play using only SIGN LANGUAGE.
.....
Somehow, we pull it off. We are secretly concerned that the only signs we've managed to perform correctly were disconcertingly vigorous signs for "ok" and "balloons," but no one calls hold, so we continue with the show.
Trevor gets the bright idea to spring up onto the dumpster for the next scene, which he does with grace and ease. I scowl. Show off.  I'll need an escalator to get up there that gracefully and I do so hate to be outdone. But then I remember- I'm wearing Maggie's suede platform bootie-hooves! Ha! I spring up almost as gracefully and easily, and, in the interest of payback, settle myself into his arms and rest my full weight against him for the entirety of this- the longest scene in the play.
I am feeling rather smug as we bring the play to a close, but then he really lays it on me. Not only does he position himself so that the cyborg glasses phenomenon is in full effect, he also starts to do really solid acting. My Lord, is that snot? The boy even has snot when he's doing pretend crying! Ugh. The first time I saw Trevor I admired both his blue pants and the way he successfully performed a full run-through of "Brighton Beach Memoirs" without banging his face on the Hanover Tavern ceiling, but I was unaware he would be such a shifty opponent.
I think fast. I don't have any snot- Joseph gave me a Claritin earlier in the afternoon and the blasted thing worked; I can tell I'm standing fully on top of the strip lights in the floor which I have explicitly been instructed NOT to do- distracting; I have a wedgie- ARRRRRGHHHHH!
Then I remember- when Maggie directed this bit, she said something- what was it--- oh- this is what she casually tossed off: "You can't cry here. This is what Marianne's known. What she's known he would do. At the end. And she's prepared this speech. There's no fighting- there's no frustration with the struggle to find words. She knows what she has to say. That what she deeply believes and is clinging to with her entire being to find solace- the hope that their time together is eternal- will somehow bring him peace. And if you break down, in this moment, he will come to you- and the most important thing for your life right now is that you make him strong. For the rest of his."
Yeah. That'll probably work. I do that.
Trevor and I stare at each other. A good round of acting. Dylan- more than ready to be done because she has a kickball mixer to get to- turns on all the lights.
We cross back to the entrance of the Putt-Putt and gaze out over our battlefield.
Good game.