There were good days and bad days. Most days, truly, were a mixture of both.
Today had been a grueling day. Piggy felt as if she’d tapped danced her toes off, and she felt like she’d been repeatedly mugged by the make-up and hair-styling police as they’d sought to keep her looking freshly powdered and curled. Swim practice this morning had not gone well because she was thinking about the day’s demands, and she was tired and sore and grouchy when she arrived. Kermit was also feeling the strain of their double schedule. By some never verbalized pact, they did not discuss their before and after hours meeting, nor did they allow them to carry over into filming. When he saw Piggy on the set every morning, it was as though they were meeting for the first time. If anything, Piggy seemed more formal, more aloof even, but Kermit worked hard to convince himself she was merely using professionalism to offset both the huge chunks of time they were spending together as well as the romantic overtones of the scenes they were now filming. It did not, he told himself firmly, have anything to do with the polite and very well-mannered interest her other co-star, Charles Grodin, had taken in her. In fact, she seemed very even-handed in her treatment of Kermit and “Charlie,” but somehow that thought did not comfort him.
In one of the many weird ways that life and art seemed intimately entwined, the story they were filming had autobiographical overtones. At it’s most basic, it was a simple frog-meets-pig story (with a jewel heist and a fashion show), complicated by the fact that another suitor shows up to court the pig. There were moments—days even, if Kermit was honest—when he wondered self-consciously about the script. Had it been absolutely necessary for the “other man” to be so bad? Had it really been believable that Piggy wouldn’t give him serious consideration as a suitor even before she knew he was a cad? Had Piggy’s on-screen single-minded dedication to him been believable? He liked to think so, but some small voice kept teasing him that is was all wishful thinking.
This is ridiculous, Kermit thought irritably. Piggy is my girl. At least, she always seemed to be when he wanted her to be, but there was no use pretending that they were not in one of their off-again phases. True, Piggy wasn’t seeing anyone else (that you know of, the voice prompted nastily), and Kermit had neither the time nor the desire for a social life at present, but something seemed off, seemed wrong, seemed wanting. The other day, filming the prison scene, she’d actually grumbled about having to do the kissing-between-the-mesh scene several times. The fake mustache he wore was supposed to transfer during the kiss, but it just wasn’t working. Take after take the darn thing wouldn’t budge off his upper lip, despite changing the angle, timing and intensity of the kiss. Piggy was a professional—when the camera’s rolled she kissed, and her kisses—fake or otherwise—were never to be taken lightly. But Kermit could sense, could feel, that her heart and soul weren’t in it. He had been kissed by her on more than one occasion with considerable heart and soul, and he knew—knew exactly—what he was missing. When the scene had finally wrapped, he could have sworn he heard her say “thank goodness,” and it put him in a monstrous mood for the whole rest of the day. If he had known—if he had even suspected how many times that afternoon that she’d been tempted to come right across the table and kiss him—kiss him to stay kissed—he wouldn’t have been so disgruntled
As it was, the evening practice found them both sulky and resentful before they even began, and the first half hour was very rocky. Eventually, though, as so often happened with them, the work became an end unto itself, and they slipped back into more comfortable roles.
One scene called for Piggy to do the backstroke, but she could not get comfortable with lying back in the water. Kermit took her out deep enough to give them some working room, but not so deep her feet couldn’t touch the bottom and tried to get her to lie back and float.
“Trust me,” Kermit said gently. “C’mon—it’s okay.”
“No, I—I don’t want to.”
“I’ve got you, Piggy,” he would say, his hands steady under her. At the last minute, she would lose her nerve, and when she panicked and tried to sit up the water closed over her head. Over and over, the pattern was repeated, and eventually Piggy’s swim-cap came off. Now her hair was in her face, her mouth tasted like chlorine and she was so tired and hungry and angry she felt shaky. She pushed the heavy curtain of hair out of her face and let out a slow breath.
“I’m done,” she muttered. “I cannot do this.”
“Piggy, you can.”
“Sell it to someone who cares,” she snapped, starting toward the stone steps. Exasperated, frustrated by his own limitations, Kermit followed her. Before she reached them, Kermit slipped up behind her and—risking sudden and immediate death if his grip was not true—grasped her firmly under the arms and became to take her back to the deep end.
“What?!” Piggy sputtered, trying to twist free, but they were in Kermit’s element now, and he could man-handle (frog-handle? pig-handle?) her with relative ease—at least for a few minutes at a time. When they got to deep water, Kermit leaned back upon the water, pulling Piggy with him. She had one panicky moment and tried to stand, but Kermit held her firmly, safely, letting the water support them both. After a moment of panting, Piggy realized she was not sinking, was not drowning. She was—quite surprisingly—lying back in Kermit’s arms and the water was sustaining them. Kermit felt her begin to relax, but he held her tight, wanting her to feel secure and very slowly began to paddle his feet.
“Oh,” Piggy said softly, ‘this is—this is nice.” She looked up at the stars, not minding the damp hair in her face, not minding the smell and taste of chlorine. Experimentally, she spread her arms wide, feeling the embrace of the water beneath her.
“Yeah,” Kermit murmured against her neck, paddling in a wide, lazy circle. “I used to love to swim at night in the swamp. It’s peaceful-like, hm?”
“Yes,” Piggy whispered, seeing the stars spread like diamonds across the sky. After a moment, Piggy began to paddle, too, letting her legs do the work. After several moments, Kermit shifted slightly--still supporting her, but now from the side, one arm under her waist. They made a couple of lazy circuits of the pools, listening to the crickets chirp. Were it not for the distant sounds of traffic, they could have been in the middle of nowhere, far from the press of the city. When Kermit felt she was ready, he withdrew his support and clasped Piggy’s hand. The paddled around dreamily, looking at the sky with the warm water beneath them. It was, Piggy thought later, a glimpse into Kermit’s world that she had never had before—a glimpse into his childhood.
“Hey Piggy,” Kermit said softly, not wanting to break the mood.
“Hmm?’
“Piggy—you’re floating.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, I am.”
They were shy with each other when they climbed out of the pool moments later. Piggy set about drying herself carefully. Kermit pretended to the do the same, while actually watching her out of the corner of his eye. He enjoyed watching her, especially when she was relaxed, unguarded. He wished she felt that comfortable with him all the time.
Piggy was toweling her hair carefully. The stylists would rake her over the coals tomorrow, wondering what she’d done to her hair, but there was nothing for it now. She stepped into her sandals, flung her cover-up around her shoulders and picked up her duffle. It was dark, and Kermit stepped up close to her so he could see her face.
“You did great.”
“Not really.”
“Yes, really.”
“Thank you for helping me—I didn’t know—I couldn’t get it until you showed me.”
Kermit stubbed a webbed toe against the concrete in mock self-deprecation. “Aw shucks, ma’am—twernt nothin’. It’s a frog thing.”
“Apparently.”
They laughed softly, then Piggy looked away.
“See,” Kermit said quietly. “You were worried for nothing. I told you I’d hold on to you, Piggy.”
Kermit thought he heard her inhale sharply, but she did not move. In the dimness, her expression was unreadable.
“Yes,” she whispered, not looking at him. “You did say that.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, then Kermit reached out to take her duffle, his hand closing over hers.
“Here—let me carry that for—“
“No—I, I’m doing fine on my own,” Piggy said quickly, turning away. Before Kermit could say anything else, she was gone.
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I'm not trying to accuse you of anything, or criticize you! I just thought it was a funny coincidence that's all, and I like where you went with it! I just figured it might be a good idea for me to let my idea go for a while anyway, 'cause, you know, I didn't want other people to think I was copying you, that's all. It's hardly developed right now anyway and I thought I might use it in the fabric of a longer story.
