Dressing Room Rules for a First Date With a Stranger Who Knows Her Lines

Rule one is taped to my mirror in lipstick, slightly smudged: never act surprised when he knows the next line. It is terribly tempting. Someone leans in and finishes my sentence, and every instinct I have says gasp, clutch the pearls, give him the big theatrical eyebrow. But the trick is to smile like I expected it all along. Confidence is the best costume I own.

Rule two concerns the mirror itself. I am allowed one long look, no more. Any longer and I start negotiating with my own reflection, adjusting a curl that was perfect, retying a ribbon that was fine. One look, one nod, and then I turn away before I lose my nerve. The mirror gets no vote on how brave I am tonight.

Rule three is about silence. When a stranger knows my lines, there is always a beat where neither of us is sure who leads. I have learned not to rush it. I let the quiet sit between us like a third guest at the table, and I let it be a little flirtatious. Some of my best moments have been nothing but a held glance and a smile I had not planned.

Rule four: keep one line in reserve that he could not possibly know. It does not have to be grand. A small, off-script remark about the draft from the stage door, or the way the hem keeps catching on my heel. It reminds us both that I am more than the pages I was handed.

Rule five is the one I break most gladly. I promise myself I will not fall for the one who knows my lines, and then he says one slightly wrong, on purpose, just to see if I will catch it. I always catch it. If you want to test me, I am waiting on TheFriend with my pencil sharpened.

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