Last night, I went out with my roommate and his friend The Actor, to watch some improv comedy.
It was freezing cold and a fierce wind was whipping through New York. We were all hatless in our “it’s hip to be cold” way, all clenching our teeth and gripping the edges of our coats in a futile effort to stay warm.
We ate cheap, hot, fresh tortillas; The Actor gobbled his down in two bites or less, and I clutched them in my hands and drew out the eating experience for as long as the tortilla maintained its heat. Lovely, cheap impromptu hand-warmers! We hopped anxiously from one foot to the other while we waited in line. We told each other silly jokes in an attempt to distract ourselves from the stinging cold, and to generally celebrate each other’s company.
Then we were inside, and the show began. And we laughed at the distracted actor, the botched lines, the awkward moments. We laughed at the high points, the moments when the timing was just right. We doubled over, shaking silently, wiping the tears from our eyes, when our favourite actor ruthlessly exploited a line or staged a perfect moment.
Then we went home. And I slept, without interruption, for the first time in weeks.