Footlights
Why does the velvet embrace of a packed theater feel warmer than a lover’s shoulder?
Onstage, when the footlights come up, nothing can touch you. The heavy curtains draw back to the rafters, and you can’t see the crowd, but they can see you. You can hear their pulse out there, all of them waiting in the perfumed dark, waiting for your magic to begin. They love you. They want to love you. They adore you.
Why does the velvet embrace of a packed theater feel warmer than a lover’s shoulder?
It just does.
When you draw to the stage, you smell the chalk on the boards. Your Ben Nye foundation catches the pink spotlight. Your feet are a dancer’s, your voice is as strong as silk, and then— there’s that beautiful mic. The mic is the full silver Monty: you can hold it, you can swing it, you can caress it. When you whisper into its silver mesh, they hear you in the balcony, as if you were lying on their pillow.
Remember every night we sold out? Every night, stardust.
One time when I was a little girl, my father was seeing a girl from the Opera chorus. We’d go pick her up at…