My toes may have been hurting already when I stepped out of the taxi, but I do not remember. All my attention was away from my flower-patterned shoes. I was focused on the composure of my back, the regality of my neck, on faking a calm breathing so the porters at the Plaza did not notice my reverence, my choking anxiety, the deep canyon of ecstasy parting the chambers of my heart. I pushed the revolving door with the talon of my hand wondering if, in a parallel curl of the infinite universe, Grace Kelly was doing the same. But I am sure that even in her most inelegant days, the laziest porter would have opened the lateral door for her and her halo of Chanel No 5. I stood stoically in the lobby, trying to guess the bar domains beyond the tall floral arrangement on the centered round table. I thanked my five-inch heels that allowed me to get a glance of the solemn stained-glass ceiling through hyacinths and oriental lilies without stretching my …

She saw him almost every night. Not just him, of course, she watched all of the cast. She also had to keep an eye on the audience and blink her torch at people talking or on their phone. Sometimes she had to tell someone to stop singing along. That was the worst. But she saw him, knew all his scenes, his lines, each turn, each smile. It was easy when the stage lights flooded his every movement and they were so big and exaggerated that even the people in the cheap seats could see them. The first couple of times, she hadn’t seen him at all. It had been seamless but after a few more times, she knew what to look for – the little head nod he gave himself before he walked through the audience to make his grand entrance, the beginning of an exhale as the curtain fell on the first act, that last smile after the cast all bowed. He was handsome as all leading men are but that wasn’t the reason …