The Spotlight2 mins 88 2 mins 88
Sitting 2 rows from the stage, he stared at this equanimous figure sitting in the yellow spotlight.
Have you always looked at this alluring or is it a new dress? Maybe a new attitude? He thought, craning his neck till his blue eyes met her hazel.
In response, she started her sequence and a reverent silence fell over the theater.
Both. And a new tattoo. She turned slightly to show him the butterfly on her left uncovered shoulder. He acknowledged the rebellious gesture of freedom.
You couldn’t have given yourself a few months to mourn us, could you?
I gave it a week.
He chuckled and reached for a nearly emptied flask in his coat. Don’t you reek of cheek tonight?
And you of alcohol.
Drinking to your beauty and grace. He lifted his flask to her; Marginally, so as to not disturb the audience behind him. The music came to a pregnant pause.
Ready? She took a long breath.
For you? Always.
In one perfectly synchronized motion, she set her bow to the instrument, the spotlight engulfed the stage and the percussionists announced ascension. She pursed her lips. She furrowed her brow. She swayed with her instrument, commanding the orchestra, commanding the very air around her. She bent music to her will and the strings of her cello were mere servants to her delicate fingers. She wielded her patrons’ acquiescence with grace and the theater, itself, felt the tension between the two star crossed lovers. The symphony rose and the music swelled. And the hall reverberated with such fervor and passion that hearts were set ablaze in each seat. Her song filled the hall with sadness and joy and sweet heartache. The time came to a screeching halt, as, with a single flick of her bow, she took the theater to a musical climax.
And then uproar!
He smiled and walked away, looking back once more at someone he used to know. Until next time, then. He nodded to her, amidst the chaos, and closed the door on his past, as he walked out into the cold.