It was raining the day they were to
shoot her scenes and Dirk just
shrugged the way he did and
studied the crossword.
It wasn’t a big part—the
wronged wife in a
merry-go-round of infidelity
amidst the upper-middle class.
The script was by Pinter and a
tad pretentious but it was
work and she didn’t want it
to go to waste, so she
found the oilskin and the
sou’wester and went without
shoes on the wet grass despite the
sparks’ cables snaking nearby.
She thought she might seem silly,
not thinking how erotic she looked—
a barefoot English rose in a
mackintosh, all wet.
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