Dean’s sugar mellowed smile bores down on me and I have to act. I start in Midsummer, slide into one of the soliloquies and make my way into Macbeth. I try not to let my Horatio die, even as I am pierced by the acerbic plastic rustle of Dean’s foraging, his thick, somnolent fingers prying the bag on his lap for fresh candied pray. I hear him chewing between sonnets, his smacking lips palpating over my punctuation. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments. Some Caliban betrays me and leaves me limping to a close amidst the winter of our discontent.

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