Playing with Genre

Written by Kelsey StanczakThey would lean toward each other in class, maybe not at first, but the space between them dissipated with their attention. The professor droned on about details which would be long forgotten as their focus slipped away from lecture. In the corner of her eye she saw him shift. She turned slightly as he whispered, their motions synchronized in an easy familiarity.“What are you doing after class?”She smiled briefly before cutting it off, sharpening her face into a casual impassivity. “I’ve got nothing planned.”“Library again?” He had a way of looking at her that made her feel like she was being studied, and in that respect she grew bold.“What if we did something different, like a sensory immersion story?”He glanced at his watch. “I don’t think I have time for a full feature immersion, I’ve got a meeting not too long after this.”“A scene then?”Honesty wandered around his lips as he fought a smile, “I could do a scene.”The pair was surprisingly quiet for the rest of lecture, caught off guard by the sudden roar in chairs, in the scuffle of feet. He tossed his things into his bag, she caught the corner of his eye, the parallel of their movements, the unacknowledged unison in their motions.She tucked a hair behind her ear, her eyes flickered toward his for a moment, “So how about the theater on Main?”“Isn’t there one about two blocks from here?” He pulled on his jacket.“Their headpieces were wonky. The ones they use on Main have a pretty seamless transmission, and they won’t like, dig into your head.”“Wonky?”“Yeah, it’s just like the script wasn’t loading fast enough or the headpieces couldn’t sync properly with my neuro function, either way it felt like the whole story was lagging.”“I’ll take your word for it then.”They chatted amicably as they walked, hands brushed, maybe there was a linger, but never long enough to acknowledge.“Alright so,” She put her hands on her hips and looked toward the theatre building, “the stories are categorized by genre. I’ve done mystery, drama, that was rough, comedy…” “Any suggestions?”“What about a rom-com?” She smiled mischievously.“A rom-com scene?”Her face grew pink. “Or we can continue dancing around it for another few weeks.”A jolt ran through his stomach. “That’s assuming quite a lot.” His feet shifted toward her, his pupils widened.Those small details mounted in her mind like a gunshot, and her emotions lunged off the blocks, wild and gasping for breath in the chase. “Yeah, but I’m right.” She grinned and skipped off toward the kiosk, inquiring about the rom-com showings that afternoon. “We’ll take the three o’clock scene for two, please.”The pair took a seat in the vestibule and waited for their appointment. A pair of twins talked excitedly a few seats away, and a small group of children bounced around, thrilled at the idea of starring in their own action film. Around the walls of the room were posters of available genres, diagrams of the theater’s headpieces. Armrests divided the space between the pair, her hand draped casually, as if anticipating a response. His arms remained folded, while his shoulders dipped closer.“That was rather blunt.” He raised an eyebrow, a corner of his mouth followed.“Well, that’s all I’ve got,” She shrugged. “Subtlety isn’t really my thing.”He sat back in his chair, smiling to himself. “You could admit it’s a two-way street.” She motioned vaguely between the two of them, before being interrupted by an usher. “Right this way for the scenic experience.” His voice was saturated with monotony.The pair were led to a door.“The room is pneumatically aided. These headpieces,” The usher handed them two thin wires with small flat disks on each end, “are to be worn like this for optimal scenic transmission.” He pressed one disk to the top center of his head and looped the other to the space just behind his ear. The pair were quick to follow. Her nervous hands fumbled with the headpiece. “No, like,” he took the disk from her and placed it gently behind her ear. They stepped apart and eyed each other for a moment.“Jesus, we haven’t even gotten into the thing yet.” She threw him an antagonistic glance, smiled to herself despite her apprehension, then stepped into the room.He quickly followed her, entering a glittering high school gym, the phrase “PROM ‘96” emblazoned on a sheet hanging from the rafters. He looked down to see wide-leg pants and an oversized tuxedo jacket. When he saw her, he couldn’t help but gaze with the intentional patience set about in the scene: it started with an examination of her shoes, and panned slowly along the length of her legs, noting the smooth curves between her ankles and calves, the suggestion of figure beneath the pink tulle skirt. He resisted for a moment, lost in the scripted scene, then succumbed to the slow, marching assessment of her body before finally resting on her face. It felt strange, and she laughed uncomfortably as if in agreement, that was the nature of the game.An imported thought caught his attention and he found himself reminiscing in montage: of course she was stunning; he had noticed it in the attitude of her hips, how they shuffled weight like a deck of cards, subtle movement from one side to the other. How her shoulders would move fluidly as she jumped between ideas, propped up on her arms as if perched on the table. In the way she twisted her hair onto her head, eyes closed with an air of meditation. Each memory of her flashed before him in an inner monologue propelled by the narrative.  She found herself considering the details of his face and a sudden wave of apprehension engulfed her, independent of her headpiece. The tux was poorly fitted, though she felt the need to consider it with a sense of awe. She felt herself slipping more and more easily into the story as she quieted the riotous voices of hesitation within. Her thoughts lingered on the warmth of his scent, how he’d lean toward her in the library, looking over her work, her nose teasing hints of skin from the space between them. She was magnetized by the pink curves of his lips, so improbably pink, so delicately shaped. Reminiscing on the quiet irresistibility in the way his tongue peeked out toward the world when he laughed. He nervously adjusted his tie, and her eyes wandered along the path of his hands, lingering at his throat. She was fed a desire for him that mingled with her own growing curiosity. He delivered the first line, “Amelia, wow.” The dress again beckoned for his attention, the material gathered at her waist longing for hands, her hourglass shape confronted hesitation.She was prompted to look abashed and responded willingly. “Hey, Sam.” She looked about suddenly, feeling as though something were missing. “Where’s Meghan?”Meghan was his problematic longtime girlfriend, of course. He recoiled for a second –  he had never dated a cheerleader, and he didn’t know a girl named Meghan.“We broke up. I--” he looked about wildly, ran a hand through his hair. He would’ve been perfectly in character if not for the slightest hint of authenticity lingering in the discomfort of his eyes.“I can’t stop thinking about you.” It was true, but he didn’t want to admit it, hadn’t fully admitted it to himself. He thought about her the way a riddle lingers if left unsolved. She had a charm that was slightly off putting in a way he couldn’t describe. About her he felt conflict, confounded by the distinguishable layer of emotion supplied in the narrative. He felt an attraction, unacknowledged, urged forward by the scene. He felt a brief moment of genuine panic.She looked up at him, her eyes wide with emotion.Conflicted and lost, he followed the script. “Amelia, I just--” He stopped abruptly, noting the music. Slowly, the building noise of Oasis’ “Wonderwall” filled the room, bringing with it a cheer among the students around them.“I love this song!” She found herself saying, rolling her eyes in response. He fought back the urge to laugh before the next line came to him, “Come with me.”  He took her hand and lead her to the middle of the gym, supportive whispers followed in their wake. He was prompted to pull her closer, and like putty she obeyed. Her figure melted as his body lit up, each nerve blinded by her touch. Their eyes both whispered sentiments of uncertainty, their headpieces tingled and they were transmitted the emotions for the scene.She felt doubly helpless in her honest attraction and the layer of long-awaited love which draped around her like a costume. She had been his friend of course, and the excess of physical attraction promoted in the moment confused the sense of bodily curiosity which she had been quietly nursing. She found her thoughts wondering about the texture of his hands, the taste of his lips. He felt himself leaning toward her and deliberately paused for a moment, testing the boundaries of his will in the narrative. He was delighted to know he wasn’t entirely at the mercy of the script but felt strongly compelled to follow the scene. He complied and let go of any resistance.And maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves meTheir lips met, and for a moment she tensed in response to a subtle static between them. But then she was consumed in the scent of him, the tulle of her dress crinkling between them as they melted closer together. Feelings of confusion and conflict swam beneath the surface of an honest delight in the softness of his lips, the warmth of his arms. One hand moved to bury itself in her hair, while the other, wrapped around her hips, pulled her closer still. Before a wave of self-reflection could drown out the transmission, he moved himself back into the narrative. They were fed a processed sense of satisfaction, thrilled in the sense of long-maintained anticipation. She wouldn’t let herself linger in the parallels.The crescendoing kiss came to a ceremonial close when she smiled. He pulled her into an embrace, swaying slightly as they were played off. He found himself clinging to the moment, relishing in the contact between their hips, her head on his shoulder.After all, you’re my wonderwall.Suddenly they were in a blank room, and the usher was opening the door to show them out. The fluidity of emotion in the scene fell apart like an uncoordinated orchestra and they were left with the uncontextualized normality of their relationship. The abruptness of their re-entry revealed an uncomfortable tension between the two, not at all like the one they had entered with.  They were disjointed in their lack of roles, ill-equipped to confront the scene which was so powerfully juxtaposed in its aftermath. It was a tension that neither wanted to address. They returned their headpieces and gathered their things in an uncharacteristic silence. No longer in the company of the usher, she turned to him. For a moment she felt it again, that unravelling sense of vertigo, that hopeless awe. And for a moment, maybe, they both considered each other’s lips. She found herself wanting to rest her hand on the space between his neck and shoulder, and for a moment he wandered back, surrounded in the scent of her.“Kinda like emotional shockwaves, huh?” She broke eye contact, looked off into the distance, pulling slightly at the sleeves of her sweater.“A little bit, yeah.”Another uncomfortable pause. She adjusted her feet, he ran his fingers through his hair.“Well, that was novel.”He looked at her.“I just mean, like, it was weird, right? It was weird.”His expression darkened slightly in confusion.“Like maybe we should’ve tried a different scene, I don’t know.” She gestured vaguely, impatiently, discomfort written plainly in her movements. “Maybe action next time?”“Or mystery? Just not,” she paused, they made eye contact briefly, laughed uncomfortably, “not, uh, not rom-com again.”