dust yourself off. dust yourself off. dust yourself off.

     ‘ what of him-- why, you!– ’ her hands flap uselessly at her sides, up and down. for no discernible reason in the slightest, her volume drops straight into an agitated stage whisper, the kind she uses when ethan has asked a particularly ill-timed question, too-loud, in temple. maybe it’s as if, even as far-off as he is already, she’s afraid richard might hear her. she thanks the lord for powder, anyway, on account of the risen blush hidden safely beneath it. she’s flustered. she isn’t angry, per say– but frustration is apparent. flustration! 

     ‘ you didn’t– i mean. i knew you knew him, i just didn’t know you, well, ’ she gestures between herself and ozzie, inflecting pointedly, ‘ knew him. really! ’ 

         ‘ know him. i may as well be his spouse. ’

(indeed, miriam. the wise smile means that he is.)

he’s having a trifle too much fun winding her up. his enjoyment has shuffled past its base ‘result of relief’ lovable level to something nearer what gets him in trouble with richard.

without a parallel experience, oswald’s commentary—granted, mumbled to begin with—can fly comfortably under the radar of the audience that is his immediate company. there are in-jokes for close-listening fellow sufferers.

     struck ( a little starry, a little shocked. ) as still a statue in ozzie’s doorway, a harsh and oddly hushed whisper of, ‘ richard. peabody! ’ is all she can manage right about now. 

     midge is halfway through a dinner roll, a butter knife in hand, when she spots him. five feet and eleven inches of rug cutting comedy topped by springy, reddish blonde. only ten feet from their booth, danny kaye comes to a patient stop at the host’s stand. ‘ shit. ’ she isn’t watching when she butters her bread, which is why it takes a proper glance at her plate to realize she’s spread it on her hand, instead. ‘ shit. ’ she makes move to cover her face, thoroughly pre-embarrassed, remembers the butter, and grabs for a paper napkin instead. 

     ‘ don’t flip your wig, ’ her voice drops low as low. ‘ – or i’m going to flip my wig. ’ 

oswald passes for cucumber-cool from the breastbone north. his hands, picking up a tremble just heavy enough to send his tea cup rattling against its saucer, may as well cast upward a spotlight onto his otherwise — well, now reddening — stoic face.

     ‘ are they? ’ 

     he shakes the dredges, all two drops of them, out for good measure, then sets the emptied glass on the counter. richard splays a hand at his breast, against the wet fabric and the still-pounding heart that sits beneath it. ‘ shame. this iiis, ’ dragging the word out with a lilt, he pinches what he can with two fingers. ‘ – cotton, i think. ass. ’ 

his balance is better than than this — better than a hand on richard’s shoulder to steady himself for a simple turn of his foot — but his touch is his sorry, darling, and he can think of no easier way to offer it.

the shoes are handsome, he notes. salvageable, too, which is more than he can say of richard’s mood.

     somewhat lamely, but in no way less sincere, midge echoes a loud, ‘ oh! ’ with a mouth as round as the sound. she hadn’t expected a confirmation. ( is she ever going to get used to that sweet bite of affirmation? maybe, maybe not. slow to start, exchanges of this sort have begun to crop up more and more. she supposes she might have to. ) she can’t promise she remembers him or his– friend, was it?, but she more than likely remembers the show. 

     she curls her hand against the collar of her coat– a deep blue, this time– and tips her footing between heel and toe. ‘ god. i hope i was. thank you. i can’t imagine you went all the way up there just for me, ’ and there’s genuine interest, here. ‘ how’d you fellas catch wind? ’ by word of mouth? she almost says. by way of australia? 

     it had to have been a trek, either way. 

how best to phrase it without revealing damning information about himself and his partner? and how best to tell the young woman that he and his are as good as casual scouts, that they’ll pick and choose hopefuls from the grapevine, and that mrs. maisel put on the best show oz can remember seeing since he’d years earlier hitched his wagon and followed richard’s tour (and had, on more than one occasion, been too amused by the material to remember he was meant to be making eyes across the room)?

         ‘ i’ll have it out of the bottle. ’ he opens and closes a fist two times, urging richard to hand it over. ‘ our chances of surviving this evening look slimmer by the minute. the least we can do is put on a show. ’

he hasn’t timed this as well as he’d thought. instead of tucking a note in with the package of gold toes he’s propped up against his office door — he slips the card into his breast pocket at the sight of her — oswald has to address their recipient face-to-face.

         ‘ — they’re comfortable, ’ he says, too sudden and too abashed. ‘ i wondered if an offering might delay your next theft. ’

reach as he’s had to to make them stick, self-directed reassurances that richard’s routine has not, from the first line, been about him, has at least been possible. that there’s something to be addressed and treated in his partner is far easier a pill to swallow than the alternative — than ozzie himself being the troubled subject winning laughs.

then sinks the line about his cats. about the ratty old house shoes on which they sleep. about that gifted red robe, covered in fur and seldom shed.

then sinks oswald. the exit signs may as well be blinking red, given the temptation they stir. he wonders if he’s been seen; if he can leave, go home, pretend never to have been here.

soft family things.

he does still, briefly, before responding. he isn’t entirely sure what he’s to do with such an unusual (charming?) request.

vanya has always been compared to her siblings.   she’s not sure how to define herself without those comparisons  :   she is more ordinary,   less useful,   more quiet,   less worthy.   no adjective she describes herself with comes without a qualifier.   that’s probably why she’s here.

‘  right.   okay.  ’       she shrugs  &  her shoulders stay up,   defenses raised.         ‘  should i not use that word?   i can stop.  ’       she offers to change her language because she doesn’t yet know how to change her thinking.   ordinary is a fact.   ordinary is her life.

         ‘ no, ’ he answers simply. albeit a moment delayed, the smile he pulls is gentle, forgiving. oz then drops his gaze to his notes, stalls with pen in hand, and next to the word ‘ordinary’ — written not as opinion, but as a reminder of her generous usage — writes, ‘not.’

         ‘ oh. ’ a lift of the chin and the brow are equivalent, for ozzie, to a snap and point of the fingers. he could reach up and give the hovering lightbulb chain a good tug. ‘ i am familiar. my hus— my housemate and i saw you. upstate new york, i think it was. ’ his pause runs a bit long; what follows is sincere. ‘ you were excellent. ’