“Hey, so—I don’t want you to get mad,” he started.
Tillie watched, high in her balcony box, as two sides of the red curtain chastely kissed at center stage. Wisps of blonde started to untangle themselves from the French braid her mother had woven her a few hours before. Her heart pounded, fresh off the cliffhanger that ended act one. She wondered where the lead actress went; what magnificent, bright dressing room she retreated to, filled with roses and peonies and Perrier. I could do that. I could sing those songs and act that part and everyone would watch me and wonder where I went and wait and wait and wait for me to come back. She swung her legs at the marvel.
“You’ve got this one long hair,” he muttered, eyes slanted away, fixed on the stately older couple leaving their booth.
I bet she’s dating two guys and I bet they’re both in the cast and they hate each other’s guts but she laughs all sparkly, like diamonds falling out of God’s hand and they don’t care; they just love her and want to kiss her. And she knows it. Oh, she knows it but she can’t quite decide who kisses best. “My braid is loose,” she said, reaching for her program. Her head jerked forward, suddenly.
“It’s on your chin,” he said, and she realized he was tugging it now, and again, like a puppet. He released his grip and Tillie felt at her jawline, slowly, looking at him. “I just wanted you to be aware so you could take care of it…before anyone else sees, ok?” He stopped, trying to read her. “I’m gonna go get a drink. You want anything?” She didn’t respond. “Don’t be mad, now,” he chastised, eyes on the exit. The mouth of his chair flapped shut as he climbed up the stairs.
Tillie glanced toward the empty stage. She could see the bright orange tape of spike marks now in the light. She took the program, carefully unfolding it on her skirt. She forced her eyes to turn an achingly slow arc around the entire theater, then cupped her chin with both hands and read every line of the actress’ biography. She read it twice, three times. She memorized it. She put her name in instead. She stared at the stage and spoke it aloud, letting her fingertips touch at her skin, reaching, smoothing, until the tape lines blurred and the tech crew disappeared and only, only the red velvet remained.
Christy Jones is a Minnesotan poet, singer, actress, and playwright. She completed her MFA in Creative Writing from Lindenwood University, and also holds degrees in Vocal Performance and Philosophy. She has an unabashed love for musical theater, linguistics, Columbo, and the superiority of Duck, Duck, Gray Duck to Duck, Duck, Goose.