“Bucky?” She said, like she couldn’t believe he was really there. Ido know her, he thought. And he wasn’t talking about the last time they’d seen each other, when she’d almost made him pay for trying to kill her. They’ve met years ago. In another time, or perhaps another life. “Who the hell is Bucky?”
There was something familiar about her face, it was like he knew her, but he couldn’t remember from where. Or when. The rage in her eyes was so, so visible that it made him tremble. No one had ever confronted him like that before. She could see the glimpse of pain in his eyes, but the wrath in hers didn’t disappear.
His eyes couldn’t leave her. Hers, on the other hand, were everywhere but on him. She knew he’d been looking at her since his arrival, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that she also had been staring from time to time.
The thing that sticks to me most about theater is that because it’s such an ape crazy nonstop experience, you really don’t have time to think about anything else. You’re just really present; you have to be, or else, you know, you can’t stop the play.