Tryst Six Venom by Penelope Douglas

changing audience. Firefights, car chases, rock music, forbidden love… I’m
not suggesting much that hasn’t already been done.
I spot a long black coat—Victorian, with a fitted torso and calf-length
skirt—mixed in with the Renaissance costumes, and I stop, studying it.
Pulling it off the rack, I hold it up, pause only a moment, and then grab
the ruffle on the left shoulder, ripping it off. I do the same to the right side
and slide the coat off the hanger, slipping my arms into it. I button it up, the
bodice fitting perfectly, and then slip the rubber band off my wrist and pull
my hair back into a high ponytail, teasing my hair. I dive into a dressing room
and dab on some more eyeliner and dark shadow around my eyes, seeing the
scene in my head. New York. A cold night. White snow falling against a black
sky.
Prince Paris is in his penthouse somewhere in the city and horns honk in
the distance, beyond the park, as Romeo’s hair whips in the wind next to me.
My friend. I walk out to the stage, stand in the middle, and close my eyes.
My best friend. The true other half of his soul.
I swirl around the stage, Mercutio’s famous monologue rolling off my
tongue, because I’ve had it memorized for years. Mercutio is large—a oneperson
party—and she dominates every scene she’s in, the coat spinning with
me, my head tipped back, and my eyes still closed as the character slowly
swells in my stomach.
“This is the hag,” I go on, feeling my eyes grow wild with fire as I gaze at
my friend, “when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.”
I sweat, inhaling and exhaling hard. “This is she.” I shout. “This is she!”
“You’re good,” someone calls out.
I freeze, my breath stopping, and then I whip around, seeing Callum
Ames standing behind me. He wears fitted black pants and a dark blue Polo,
all of his dusty blond hair flopped to one side.
I narrow my eyes. “Better than you.”
He grins, sliding his hands in his pockets. “I’m white, rich, and male. I’ll
succeed no matter what.”
“You’re male,” I say. “You’ll succeed no matter what.”
He has zero interest in this play and not an ounce of talent. Why else did