I held it to my chest, my face becoming hot as the staff brought the food items, small and stacked delicately on a three-tiered stand.
I nodded in thanks, waiting for them to walk away before peeling the book from my chest, getting a glimpse at the sketch. There was no uncertainty about her identity, my markings were proudly smudged across the chest. Yet, I didn’t recognize myself, not in this way. Nothing was particularly fantastical. My proportions were accurate and favorably depicted.
Most men, when they imagine a woman, wish for changes. The length of her legs, the mass of her bosom, even the shape of her teeth or the color of her hair. When men wish for fantasy, they wish for something different.
When Arkady capturedmefrom his imagination, there was such care in capturingallof me. The way one eye squints more when I’m angry, the vein in my temple that appears when I’m stressed, the tilt of my smile, the way my hips had small dips in them like a violin.
All these things may have made me insecure at some point. But seeing myself through his eyes, I realized he had no other idealized fantasy of me ... he saw me for my truth.
My throat ached. I tilted my head back as if to will away any tears.
The last page had more hours poured into it than all the other sketches combined. It was a full scene; corner to corner was covered in charcoal. A dark page with a delicate scene composed in the middle.
The light from the window swept over the body, chipping away at the darkness to reveal a pale form. Lying in bed, head sloped to the side in a peaceful sleep. The details were so impressionistic, so delicate, I could see the blond of my lashes, the soft scratching away of pieces of hair. My arms folded, relaxed into the sheets.
On my face and in my hair, moths stretched their wings or crawled about. There was something human about seeing a pest and thinking it beautiful within the mundane.
I picked up my tea as I touched over the lines, the scratching of the paper. There was a note stuck to the bottom of my cup.
I plucked it from the tea ware and held it close.
Join me for one more show?
A
All this time, I’d assumed that he was largely self-absorbed, materialistic. Maybe it was the way he observed quietly or didn’t feel the need to say things out loud. I didn’t consider that he was possibly trying to find a way toshowme how he felt, rather than offering hollow proclamations.
He was showing me now, and I understood.
The Brass Globe—the sun to every dancer’s wax wings while the patrons bet on how high you’d make it, then how hard you’d hit the ground.
Even with its horrid past, I loved it all the same for the good memories it helped create. A sense of community I couldn’t shake, despite its problems. It was the theater. It was where fantasy ran free and leaped into our lives right before our eyes.
Tonight, it was a hollow husk. It was the crowd that made it feel so lively. Without them, the seats were just reserved for ghosts.
The theater stood proud, the night dampening the marble without the extra lighting afforded by a show. Its ambience was not an issue, not when you were used to the back entry.
It always felt special going in the back. It was dark in the alleyway, it smelled sour from the garbage making a home, and cigarette butts were almost as plentiful as the gravel. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine sneaking out this way to avoid the crowds. I’d walk straight onto the street, and they would have no idea that they just saw me put my soul onto the stage, threatening to be evaporated by the spotlight in an instant.
When you entered the backstage, it is unbearably dark at first, especially at night. Once your eyes adjusted, things in the shadows began to take form. Everyone forgot that behind every clean production were many ropes, pulleys, and bodies that made it happen. From where I entered, I was behind several curtains by the right wing of the stage, tables and stools huddled to the back, ready to be used for the next performance.
A strong light ... the spotlight was on as well as the lamps at the edge of the stage.
The minor curtains allowed me to catch a peek as I approached, the flicker of the lamps at the edge of the stage catching my curiosity. Then I stopped, just stood in one of the wings of the stage. It felt likemy last performance. A knot in my gut forming, adrenaline building, until I decided whether I wanted to run or leap.
My body had other plans as it pulled me into the light, the glare blinding me as I stepped out cautiously, the dark, empty expanse serving as my audience. I could see a faint shimmer of the chandelier, larger than life for such a lavish establishment. The looming empty levels of seats along the sides, and a dark shadow to block the floor and orchestra pit.
It was empty ... or so I assumed.
“You came.” A voice from the crowd, such relief in those two words, I hardly recognized Arkady as the source.
“I saw your message.” My own voice betrayed me, but it seemed he was hungry for my answer as well as my attendance.
I couldn’t see him in the dark, but I knew he was lingering about. The creaking of a seat, then the echo of one person walking through such a vast and empty place. His form only became known when he appeared by the steps at the front of the stage. Even then, he seemed reserved.
“I want to explain.” I swallowed.
“We can talk about it later.” He approached slowly, ascending the stairs.
