OK, I'm sharing this bit I wrote at O-dark-stupid a.m. today because I am loving it. It's rough draft, first pass so be gentle with critiques. If you ever want to know why theatre people deal with all the bs we do for theatre, this is why...
The theatre was on the opposite side of our building, behind the other leg of the U-shaped building. Like every other building besides the library and adjoining building, this was another brick Victorian confection. “Close your eyes,” Michael said, pulling out his keys.
“Michael, I’ve been in this theatre before.”
“When no one else has been here?”
OK, he had a point. And I knew what he was getting at, so I closed my eyes.
The door creaked open, an old, comfortable creak of hinges over a hundred years old that were oiled regularly. Michael put an arm behind my back and led me into the cold dark of the empty foyer. The scent of oiled wood, dust, velvet, paint, sweat, tears, memories… that gorgeous perfume that old theatres have, a combination of human imprint and ghosts, the passion of phantasies that have embedded themselves in the very fabric of the building’s reality, a place where dreams came to life for two-hours’ traffic, the place where the public came to feel the extremes of human experience and imagination, safely contained and on a time limit, a place to laugh and weep and cringe in the sacred dark of the audience while under the lights, actors gave voice to all the things the soul hides and fears to talk about in the harsh light of reality.
Who needed religion when there was the theatre? The most ancient of temples, the place of sacred communal experience, the arena where philosophy, performance, literature, art, and all the best and worst elements of the human soul were laid before an audience, a banquet for the spirit and the mind, the only place I ever truly felt alive and connected to the world.
I walked forward, eyes still closed, hands outstretched not like a blind woman feeling her way, but fingers spread to pull in the energy of the room, questing forward, finding the door to the auditorium, and all the whispers on the edge of hearing became a silent roar, filling my senses, wrapping me up, welcoming me, the spirit of the place taking me in and claiming me as its own.
There were tears on my cheeks.
Oh, dear sweet merciful Gods, I had finally come Home.
Michael was there, his protective arm behind my back, a gentle touch on my cheek brushing away the tears. His arms went around me, pulling me to him, a wall of solid humanity and maleness, a yin to the yang, and there was a kiss, a fleeting sweetness on my lips that shocked and thrilled me. I let it happen; it had to, if that makes any sense. And when it ended, I rested my head against his shoulder, over his heart, beating strong and sure under my cheek, breathing together.
I broke the embrace gently and met his eyes.
Neither of us spoke, just smiled sadly: we knew it was the magic of the place, the force of narrative causality, the fact that the theatre expected drama and there were conventions.
I touched his cheek and left without a word.
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