Silver shoes, as rehearsed, tread upon the boards.The audience are hush: she is a shade to them but they know to expect.
Sole by sole she goes to the centre of the stage, puts one hand towards the limelight-
She is afraid.
The wings are full of doubts, of bills unpaid. Piles of darning in the dressing room.
The flex of the kettle worn through.
Reality is threadbare, and she has worked so hard to be this, to give this.
She has so much less and so much more than the people out there in their chairs. They do not know. They are here for the performance. But what is her role?
What happens next? She whispers it.
But you know this, the prompt squints at her, this is your script. And you wrote it all pictures and moods, there are no words to be repeated. You would not be told, you said. You glued sequins all over the paper.
Why yes! What happens next is of no consequence. No right, no wrong. Only be as you are. Dare to.
She has her trademark smile.
The light is citrus green.