It was a rumble, a dreaded rumble. I was awake; I had to be awake. I could feel the stiff burlap of the sheets, the bunching of the nightdress. I was sharply aware, but not in my time and not in my city.

"No, no, no," I chanted as I jumped from the bed and drove heavy-footed to the door. I ripped it open, but I was not faced with the empty hall of doors. No, it was much worse. Filling my doorway with wide eyes was William Shakespeare. "No, no, no!"

"Is something the matter?" His eyes were full at my odd greeting.

"Yes, you are not real," as I spoke, I pushed him away. My hands launched against his rigid body, causing him to stumbled back at the unexpected gesture.

"I believe I am genuine," the broad-eyed shock was softening to an annoying jest.

"No, I mean yes, but no. Yes, William Shakespeare is real, but no, you are not here."

"Are you feeling well? You seem to be quite distressed."

"Of course, I am distressed! I am out of my time!"

"Out of time for what? Perhaps if you did not sleep midday, you would have more time."

It was an annoying chide, given my fraying nerves.

"Napping midday. I wish I were napping midday. Pinch me."

"I will do nothing of the sort."

"Just pinch me. It doesn't count if I pinch myself," I demanded

"You are really quite hysterical."

"I'm hysterical?"

"And yet your hearing seems to be quite intact." He looked up and down the hallway nervously. "Perhaps I can help you back to bed, you seem unwell, and really it is quite uncouth to be out in a hallway in just your nightdress."

I let out a laugh. "I have worn less to church," I muttered to myself, but I let him grasp my elbow and lead me back into my room.

"Perhaps you should lie down. Was it my story of the lion? I can sometimes be too vivid with my descriptions."

Another manic laugh escaped from my lips, "you can be too vivid. You have no idea what my mind can conjure."

He led me to the bed and watched as I settled into the feather mattress and rough sheets. I sighed heavily and returned my gaze to him. Warring had replaced the sparkle in his eyes.

"What?"

"You are quite out of sorts; I fear to leave you alone. Do you have a companion?"

"I don't have nor do I need a companion."

"Really?" The twinkle slipped back to him at my bold assertion. "You were just running around the hallway in undergarments." He accentuated his words with the cock of an eyebrow.

"I was not running around the hallway, and this is hardly undergarments," I muttered as I pinched at my long-sleeved nightgown.

"You are very unlike the ladies around here. Where is it you are from?"

I had to avoid his prodding. "Perhaps I am feeling a bit tired. Tell me more of this young romance you are writing about to distract my mind?"

Shakespeare gazed at me for a long moment. The warring had returned to his eyes. There were hints of desire. My piqued interest in his story enticed the entertainer in him. Still, his propriety knew that being alone in a room with what was considered an undressed woman was problematic. He swiveled on the heel of his boot and began to retreat. It was fair, and I couldn't protest, but he paused not by the door. Instead, he plucked up the plain wooden chair that accompanied the desk and set it at the foot of the bed before settling on the seat.

"I believe I have set the stage with young love at first sight. It is a marvelous beginning, don't you think?"

"No," I sighed.

"Excuse me?"

I hadn't meant to let my true feelings spill out so quickly. "I mean that young love, at first sight, is too one-dimensional. There has to be a conflict. People love the drama of it all." I tried to play to what I knew of the story, the warring households.

"I couldn't agree more. That is why these two young loves are from pitted families."

"Mmhmm, tell me about the families."

"Ah, these two families hold an ancient grudge. It runs deep in their veins and defines them just as much as their opulence. That is where I could start my tale, with a brawl between the families. They are sparring in the streets as the city looks on them. But they do not care; theirs is a show of masculinity where the slightest shade requires retribution."

"Men," I muttered.

"These men were raised with hatred for the other. It is what makes our story's hero different. My Romeo is softer than his peers, lost in love for a woman who does not love him back. It separates him from the others and makes the audience root for him."

"Or maybe it makes the audience want him to thicken his skin. Why does this golden boy get to grouse about lost love when he is given every advantage from his perch of a fancy family?"

Shakespeare looked at me for a moment. "You do not believe in love?"

"I believe in love, but I don't believe in fairy tales. There is no faultless boy and angelic girl. Maybe I would care for Romeo more if his worts were shown. A poor rich boy is sad that a girl does not love him, not easy to root for if you ask me."

I again caused him to pause. "What if it is not just the battling families? This boy was born into a belligerent society. Everyone has a side. Deadly brawls erupt between servant and family alike. He does not feel a connection to the bloodshed. It is not his battle; it is only his name."

"Now you are getting interesting. A grudge so deep the city is divided; us versus them." I found myself propped up to pay closer attention. This grittier Romeo was far more enticing than the mopy twit I had recalled from high school.

"Yes, it will make the love stronger, the repair much more monumental," he was speaking to himself and didn't notice my slump. The reminder of the sickly sweet ending of happily ever after deflated my interest in Verona's conflict.

Shakespeare continued to muse over the mountain of repair this young couple in love would bestow upon Verona, and I let my eyes droop with boredom.