She belonged to a troupe of barely employed, hoping-to-make-it actors, traveling in a bus running on the hopes and dreams of its occupants. Their tiny theater company performed in whatever passed for a playhouse as they traveled the icy Montana highways.
He was big and hairy, looking more like one of the grizzlies in the Bridger Range. Raised in a conservative, farm-country family, he’d landed in a tiny mountain cabin outside of town. In this solitary refuge, he’d come clean, gotten sober and become content with life.
While she packed up after their performance in this forgetful town, he walked in from the cold, complaining about the lack of serious theater where real actors gave memorable performances.
His remarks generated steam inside her, which had nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature outside. Her repartee touched off a spirited debate about the value of musical comedy vs. “serious” works of Anton Chekhov.
Soon, the frigid debate began to thaw like a mid-winter chinook wind. They discovered they were enjoying time together.
Daylight began before the conversation ended. Slowly he walked her to the old bus. They said their good byes, waved, and headed their separate directions.
A few hours later, the bus parked in front of another quaint old opera house in a different, unmemorable Montana town. She prepared to entertain another audience.
As she delivered another well written punchline, she heard a distinctive baritone laughter, one she’d met less than 24 hours earlier.
Without asking permission, he had made a decision, taken a chance, and showed up – starting a romance which continues 30 years later.
Sometimes you take a chance, inconvenience yourself, become uncomfortable and let yourself romance your sweetheart. The outcome’s not guaranteed.
But then again, it could become the first of more Romantic Interludes than you could have imagined. Something to consider. Robert