Places, Everyone!

Portia had been in a play once, back in high school. Just the one. A modernized Antigone that had gotten rave reviews in the school paper, though she only had a handful of lines. She remembered the nervous energy of backstage—the way her teacher had stressed blocking, telling her exactly when to cross left, how to pause in a doorway just long enough for the audience to notice her. Even then, she had understood that theatre wasn't about being yourself. It was about hitting the mark. About playing the part the world needed you to play.

And now, years later, it felt exactly like that again.

Only the stage was Hank's apartment. The audience was Hank himself. And the stakes weren't applause, they were his heart.

It was evening when Sarah texted that she and Hank were on their way back. Portia moved quickly, almost giddy, slipping into costume: the tiny pink sports bra that hugged her breasts like a second skin, the see-through workout shorts that left little to the imagination, the black thong she knew would glow through under the right light. Barefoot, barely dressed, skin sheened from the heat of the oven.

Dinner was already in the works—aromas of garlic and roasted vegetables thick in the air. The table set, wine glasses gleaming in the lamplight. A laptop on the coffee table played a workout video on low volume, her body moving along with it, sweat beading on her brow. Sarah had told her that Hank used to love exercising with his wife, Donna. If Donna had filled that role for him once, then Portia would step into it now. Any time spent with Hank was good time.

All afternoon, she had felt the transformation tightening around her. At work, for the second time that day, she had touched herself while thinking of him, something she had never done for any man before. It had been overwhelming, almost holy. Each hour remade her further, each thought of him burning away the Portia who had once belonged to Bernice.

And then Bernice had appeared.

She'd shown up at the office, a worried look on her face, asking why Portia had disappeared, why she hadn't responded to any messages. Portia remembered the look on her face when she told her it was over. How quickly Bernice's eyes had filled, the way her lips trembled when she asked, "Is there someone else?" Portia had said yes. She'd told her she was sorry. A lie, of course. She wasn't sorry. Not in the least. It was sad, yes, to see Bernice hurt. But Portia had a higher purpose now. She loved Hank Granger. Her life was about him, and Bernice was nothing more than a closed chapter, a reminder of a person she had once been.

Her phone buzzed again. Sarah: I'm pulling in now. He's not far behind me.

Portia grinned to herself, her heart quickening. She whispered it out loud, words from another world: "Places! Curtain going up!"

She stopped the video, leaned forward, and bent low, hands braced against her knees. Her back arched, her shorts stretched thin, the thong beneath unmistakable if a man's eyes landed there. For many years she had hidden her body, dreaded when men stared at her. Now she faced away from the door deliberately, like hitting her mark on stage, craving Hank's eyes like a junkie craves a fix.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

"Oh!" Portia gasped, jerking upright as though caught in something private. She pressed a hand to her chest, cheeks warm with feigned embarrassment. "I thought I had more time—I was just finishing up a workout."

Hank stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room more fully than the smell of dinner ever could. Sarah hovered at his side, eyes bright with amusement.

Portia hurried to him, joy bubbling out of her. "You're home! Let me take that." She lifted his bag off his shoulder, slid his suit jacket from his frame with reverent hands. "You should relax. I'll put these away. Supper's almost ready."

"You don't have to do that," he murmured.

"You've worked hard today. Let me help."

He didn't protest. He just let her fuss, his eyes following her every movement.

She returned quickly with a drink for him, leading him to the couch, setting it on the coffee table in front of him. "How was your day?" she asked, her voice soft and warm, like she'd asked a thousand times before.

Sarah perched on the arm of a chair, smirking. "He was commanding," she said. "Really commanding. I loved it. You should keep that up at home too, Hank. If it helps keep us all in character, then why not? I don't want us to get sloppy now that we've finally found each other."

Portia flushed with pride at the word us. Sarah glanced around the room, her grin widening. "And look at this place. It feels alive with you here, Portia. You've made it into a home."

Her heart fluttered. "Thank you," she whispered.

She crossed to her suitcase, kneeling to unzip it, pulling out one of the outfits Sarah had chosen with her. She could feel Hank's gaze from the couch, steady, weighted. She looked back at him and smiled shyly.

"I think I'll go change," she said, holding the garment up. "I'm sure you don't want to stare at me dressed like this all night."

She hesitated, then added with a small laugh, "You know, I love working out, but… it's lonely by myself. You look so fit, Hank. Maybe sometime we could work out together?"

His eyes softened, the barest nod granting her hope.

Portia's heart leapt. She carried the outfit into the bathroom and peeled away her sweaty clothes, dropping them in the hamper. She spent only a couple minutes in the shower, the hot water rinsing away the sweat she had worked so hard to achieve. She had to be careful not to take too much time. Supper would be ready soon, and her man deserved a meal that had not been overcooked.

Steam clouded the mirror as she wiped it clear, staring at her reflection, naked and dripping. Her body looked the same as always—same lines, same curves—but to her it was unrecognizable. She wasn't Portia Caruso, Bernice's girlfriend, anymore. She was Portia, Hank's creation, Hank's dream.

Every hour, she gave herself over more fully. Every glance from him drew her deeper into the part she was born to play.

And tonight, the curtain had only just risen.