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 her eyes found him when they should have been focused on the audience.
He just seemed so there, like a rush of sunlight in the dark theatre.
Being on stage would be her worst nightmare but for him it was clearly a dream come true. She could feel his elation even as he sang a mournful ballad to the leading lady.
She didn’t have a dream. She’d read an article about how finding a purpose in life was still part of a capitalist need to be productive. The article had then gone on to talk about a tribe who believed people were like flowers – placed on earth to grow and bloom and be beautiful for the short time they had.
She liked that.
She didn’t know what flower she was but she knew what flower he was. Definitely a sunflower, big and bright and happiest in the light.
His movements and voice never wavered. No slumping or lazy twirls. He was a professional after all but she wondered what he would do after the run ended or his contract was up for renewal. Would he renew it or do something different?
Perhaps something angsty and bombastic like Phantom? She could see him leading an ingénue into his candlelit lair as the guitar solo peaked.
She would have to see whichever production he did next. Work gave her discounted tickets – maybe she could splash out for the great seats. Maybe she would make a night of it – dress up, treat herself to dinner at that bistro round the corner from her flat and then slip into the velvet seat.
She’d get to focus on him then, no having to make sure the audience behaved.
Maybe she’d order ice cream at the interval.
Despite being terrified of setting foot on stage, she loved the theatre. Especially this one with its columns, plaster flowers and flourishes on the walls and ceilings. She loved the deep red carpet. This theatre was from a bygone era of glamour and indulgence and by working here, she could press her nose up against the glass every night except for Mondays.
Her left hand held the little torch and her right hand smoothed the front of her black and white uniform. She loved the ushers’ uniform, it went well with her goth sensibilities.
Most nights she pulled her dark hair into a severe french braid but this evening it hadn’t dried in time so she had clipped some of it back. It slipped like a heavy curtain down her back and she had to keep tucking a piece behind her ear because she’d lost a bobby pin somewhere between the middle of act one and the interval.
The performance was coming to an end now and her favourite bit was coming up.
She didn’t know exactly why she liked the bowing so much.
Perhaps it was seeing the happy relief on the actors’ faces, their exhales because they were out of breath and grateful there hadn’t been any noticeable slip ups.
They looked so pleased and she wondered if it was because of this feeling that they did this, that they loved it so much. Perhaps it was addictive, perhaps it was a need.
Whatever was going on in their lives, whatever person they became when the curtains closed, this moment, standing on stage, listening to the claps and the whoops – this was all theirs.
That accomplishment couldn’t be taken away. It was the truest moment in the whole thing.
She watched him take a bow and shake his head, smiling, as if he couldn’t believe it.
She smiled for him.
He would never see it but that was fine – perfect, even.
She hoped he knew the joy he brought people, the joy he brought her. Seeing him be so happy was the highlight of her day. It was vicarious and possibly tragic.
She didn’t think she was capable of feeling intense happiness – it wasn’t sad to her though because she also wasn’t capable of feeling intense despair.
She thought about that sometimes. If he felt this beatific high every night he performed, were his lows just as visceral and burning? She hoped not.
But she would never know. She had never spoken to him. There was nothing she could say.
She couldn’t tell him he was doing a great job because that felt redundant and words couldn’t describe how she felt seeing him on stage – well, no words that could comfortably fit into a quick exchange and did not make her sound like a creep.
So she was content to just watch him. Getting to see him do what he loved was enough, she didn’t need anything else.
Esha Khimji is a new writer living in Scotland. She graduated from the University of Glasgow with a degree in Economic and Social History. She currently works a 9-5 and writes to stay sane.