You're told to find a seat near the pool. The pool? you ask. Yes, the ticket-taker says, the view will be better. You find a seat in the filling auditorium, as close as you can get to the pool, that strange rectangle of water in the middle of the stage. Is this like Kafka's Metamorphosis? you ask the person to your right. He stops reading his program long enough to glare at you. It is too late to change seats. Instead you ruminate on past plays you've seen, like that time Hamlet was up for free in the Commons. There was a pool in that adaptation, too, you remember. It was for the Ophelia death scene. So predictable, you think, so tragically predictable.

The lights go down and the play begins as you settle in. A few characters appear and delve into the origins of the universe. Their explanation somehow involves the pool. You don't understand and wait for one of them to commit suicide in the water. It is inevitable, you decide. Instead they launch into a series of narratives, adapted from the Greek romantic myth. They range from the platonic and tragic to the wild and incestuous. Most do not involve sex. Some you remember from ninth grade English, others you thought only existed in fan fiction. All in all, you realize, the Greeks had an active imagination.

With each scene, you come to learn, the pool becomes a different space: at one point the underworld and at another the table of the Gods. Though you know nothing about theatre, you decide that this is pretty cool. The waterfall was a nice touch, you figure, and the music? Heartbreaking and hilarious in turn—that was the beauty of it.

All Greek plays have Gods and choruses, and this one is no exception, you find. Scantily clad and cross-dressing lovers take the stage, alternatively making pronouncements or thrashing around in ecstasy or rage. There are modern and humorous streaks, just as each story is touched by the fantastic and metaphorical. Gods and humans crawl on and off the stage and in and out of the water, wreaking havoc and making amends. Or so you gather. Fishing people out of the water seems to be a theme.

The stories, too, are not self-contained. They are told by and for one another, by a case that rotates roles with each new scene. This is a technique you would have found belabored in a different play. Some stories contain their own myths, each one affecting the other's outcome. Some stories don't even have words.

At one point, you, the audience, becomes the sea. This is both surprising and soothing.

At the end the lights go up and you remember that you are still sitting next to the same person. You clap heartily for the cast. The adaptation, you decide, is sexy. It is clever but rooted, with characters that slip in and out of the pool and one another's stories. The myths, you figure, are not so different from everyday life. You decide that you could not have told those stories better yourself.

After the show you are swept into a crowd mingling outside of the theatre. Opening night, you realize, is supposed to be somewhat social. You recognize a girl from class who was in the play on the far side of the room. You congratulate her. You had a sex scene with your dad, you want to tell her, it was hot. Instead you find yourself asking about the temperature of the water. Once the crowd disperses you head outside. It is still raining, you find, and the streets are filling with water of their own.