Why I Will Not Be Attending Your Play

You are probably wondering why I have declined your Facebook invitation to attend the opening night of your new play. I’m sure you think you know. I’m sure you think it has something to do with professional jealousy. Or maybe personal jealousy, as you simulate sex numerous times in said play and I am your girlfriend. To save you the grave mistake of believing either of these things, I will now provide you with a comprehensive list of my reasons, at the end of which you will fully understand my decision to skip your premiere—and, in addition, never speak to you again.

REASON #1

I’ll be frank—Dispatches from the Horsehead Nebula is derivative at best. In Act One alone you borrow punch lines from both Ally McBeal and Angels in America—something I pointed out during the first cold read, to which you said art should be in conversation with other art and then told me to check my attitude. I won’t be petty and point out the obvious—that I came up with the title while making a joke about slam poetry and watched you write it down in that tiny leather-bound notebook you keep tucked in the breast pocket of your shirt because you once saw David Mamet at a Starbucks and he had the same style of notebook in the same style of shirt—but it is safe to say that you are possibly the least original person in this or any other galaxy.

REASON #2

When you told me you had written a part just for me, I assumed it was as astronaut Dr. Theresa Green, love interest and partner to your character, Trip Ambrose—not as a limerick-reciting cloud of gas. When I asked you why I couldn’t play Theresa, you told me that it wouldn’t be believable that a woman of my stature could be an astronaut, and instead gave the part to Marley Clark, who is a size two and my least favourite person on this planet. I did not know you were looking for a girlfriend who could also be an astronaut.

REASON #3

Having refused the role of Gas Cloud, I was banned from the rehearsals— most of which took place in our apartment, requiring me to sleep on Amy’s couch while you and Marley spent long nights nailing down your roles. For both our sakes, I will not try to count how many times you’ve told me to trust you.

REASON #4

I have to say it again—the play is not good. I wonder if you know it’s not good, if you can hear the way your actors roll your writing over in their mouths like something sour they aren’t allowed to spit out. You have never been good at writing dialogue, and that isn’t just something your professors used to tell you to make you work harder. Dialogue lives in the ear. You have never been able to hear other people when they speak.

REASON #5

After it became clear to me that you were definitely fucking Marley Clark in our apartment, I tried to break up with you, and you called me a coward and a cunt and still pleaded that I stay. I wasn’t going to. But then you told me you were struggling with the end of the show, and begged me to help. Do you still love me? I asked. I need you, you said. I need you, is that not enough?

REASON #6

I read it and reread it. I drafted monologues and planned lighting cues and painted a scale model of the stage so you could see my vision for the end. The two of you sit centre stage. You say the final line I have written for you, and it’s beautiful. Syrupy, watercolour spots wash your face and Marley’s. A delicate patina of smoke whispers out of the wings and catches the light. A perfect, clear note rings uninterrupted as your ship is enveloped in gauze and you enter the heart of the nebula, never to be seen again. This is how it should end, I said. I was crying. You weren’t looking anymore. I could tell that you didn’t agree, and after a pause as gaping as a black hole, you said I like the lights.

You have been at the theatre since then, which has given me time to move my things to Amy’s storage locker and contact our landlord to take my name off the lease. Tonight the curtain will go up and some of the three hundred and forty-one people who have RSVP’d on Facebook will smile up at you as you begin your opening monologue. You might notice my absence then, or after the bows. Or long after that, when you get home and discover the books and towels and Orange Blossom hand soap are gone. Maybe then you’ll see me, somewhere in the space I used to occupy. Maybe then you’ll reach out to grab hold of me, but I will be unreachable by then. Not quite an astronaut, no, but beyond your atmosphere all the same.

words by jocelyn tennant art by steve baylis