Quantum valentine

Wild roses, for Valentine's Day

We're reading the final Noir script yesterday. We have a beautiful room at Bellevue Community College -- a wall of windows looking at winter trees and white sky. All the furniture has been folded and stacked at the back of the room, so it's one big empty space, leading to the sky.

"Denise won't be here today," I said. "She owns a florist shop, and the day before Valentine's Day is their busiest of the year."

"Which florist?" someone asked.

"Overlake Florist."

"Oh MAN!" said Keith, "That's my favorite florist."

"That's where he always sends me flowers from," said Lara. "They deliver them to my work."

"They have my card on file there," said Keith.

"Great," I said. "Then you can drop off her script." Silence. They looked at me blankly.

"I have no idea where it IS," he said.

That's us, in 2005 -- a great florist, two of her faithful customers, encircled within one small play, having no idea who each other is, or even where they are physically from. Strongly-tied strangers. Theatre productions are made of strongly-tied strangers; it was eerily cool to see that replicated in our real-world roles.

For some reason, that whole interaction felt like a quantum Valentine to me.

One of my favorite parts of life is experiencing the same people in different roles. Today you are my slow-skating defense partner with a good shot, tomorrow you are the ER doctor sewing up my uninsured boyfriend's face on your kitchen table, and the next day you are the dad with wife and five kids, welcoming me to your home for Christmas dinner. What tickles me is how completely we shift. When he's on defense, I'm like, "C'MON, Vince, skate FASTER." When he's the ER doc, I'm practically not even looking at him, I'm so in awe. When he's the dad, I'm comfortably ignoring him to concentrate on the kids. Same guy. Same me. Shift, shift, shift.

Happy Valentine's day, y'all. May yours be strong, strange, and filled with charm.