Places Everyone Jeffrey Hermann
Since marrying an actress I've had to grow a lot emotionally. I've had to
shift my thinking. I try to be clear in my mind about what's real and
what's imaginary. My wife might be kissing a man in a dimly lit hotel room
while I'm falling asleep on our couch, for instance. My feelings of
jealousy are real but based on something imaginary. My wife's hands are
real. The man's hands are real. The story between them is imaginary.
Another story between them is real and that's the one my wife tells me. He
is married. He eats only fruit from the craft services table. Between takes
they talk about acting methodologies. She believes in a deep calm. He
believes in complete control. When she's home and I'm at work she rehearses
lines and reads new scripts. She has a wonderful imagination. She puts
herself into car crashes and space travel, sickness and motherhood. We
watch her shows together. She played a convicted murderer one time. A crime
of passion. The character pays her debt to society and then tries to
rebuild a life. She becomes a gardener, spends years just working and
learning. She becomes admired and then famous for her work. Earth-mother
redemption. My wife and I laugh at this. She hates yard work, getting her
hands dirty. She prefers junk food to a salad. We were actually eating
Mexican fast food while we watched. She was picking the tomatoes out of her
tostada. Those tiny little pieces, barely a vegetable anymore. Nothing
recognizable in taste or texture. Why even bother, I asked her. She made a
face as she lifted up the melty cheese with a fork, inspecting every layer.
I tried pretending they're not there, she said, but I know they are.
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