Fallen

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” her whisper echoes in the empty space.

Though the stage is empty, the lights doused, the curtain lowered and only the memory of applause and the lingering scent of the audience hang in the air she waits in the last row.

The power of his smile was bright like apron lights. The intensity of his gaze was as intoxicating as the excitement of any opening night. His words flowed smoothly like a well-crafted script and made her believe again. He had brought her back to life, rejuvenated her.

“I didn’t mean to fall.” Softly, she berates herself for being so foolish and believe that what they had for that short time, their touches, glances and whispered confessions, was real.

She knew her prime was behind, that she was merely an anecdote. She had no illusions of having a part again, lines to remember. Maybe the occasional charitable walk-on, a cameo, a caricature of who she used to be. Her ingenu years a distant memory, adult roles barely believable anymore. No amount of pancake, special lightening or even surgery would restore her to her former self. She tried to resign herself to fading, hopefully with grace.

One afternoon they met by chance. Rushing as he left Max’ office, late for rehearsal, he rounded the dark corner too fast. She lost her footing when they collided and fell. She remembered the look of consternation on his face. He was so solicitous, asking if he had hurt her. ‘Don’t be silly, just what little is left of my dignity. Not worth mentioning.’ She answered. He was polite and laughed while he helped her to her feet.

‘Oh, my! But you are …’ She thought she heard awe in his voice and preened. Casting her eyes down in pretend shyness she shamelessly flirted. ‘I was,’ she admitted. He fawned over her. She pretended to brush aside his praise. 

“You made me remember.” Her smile is wistful as she blinks a tear away.

He was so kind, so attentive. She should have remembered that kindness was a rarity in their field where people mostly thought of themselves and maybe their agent. Even though a tiny voice had nagged and told her she was being silly, her heart didn’t listen. Like a flower under the spring sun, the color deepening, the petals unfolding, she let herself loom under his praise and smile. It had been so easy to accept his words and fall into that old role.

He insisted on dining with her, the best place in town. At least, the best place either could afford, but the food was delicious, whatever it was. They leaned toward each other, almost touching across the small table as they spoke, whispered, and giggled. She could smell the wine on his breath, so sweet and rich and see the candle reflected in his eyes. She wanted to run her fingers though his short curls and imagined tasting the coffee on his lips.

When they walked to her home, arm in arm, whispering and laughing, stepping from one pool of light to the next, he asked. ‘May I see you again? Will you rehearse lines with me? I have so many questions I want to ask.’

Feeling younger than the day before, she gave herself permission to fantasize as she thought of him and let him dance through her dreams. Taking more care with her appearance, she had slipped into the back of the theater during rehearsals and admired his work. When he asked for her opinion, she believed he genuinely wanted to know. It had been so long since someone had asked, she had forgotten that honesty wasn’t used. She had forgotten that people could only hear praise.

“I never meant to hurt you.” She searches her pockets for a tissue.

She saw that it was not her place to direct or correct and was surprised by his coolness and withdrawal as she spoke freely. When she saw the hurt in his eyes and heard the tightness in his voice, she tried to erase the damage. Then she complimented every inflection he nailed, gushed over every note he reached, held her breath during every exquisitely timed pause. And she bit her tongue when he missed a cue, turned a deaf ear to flubbed lines, blinked away the slight stumbles in a crossing, till she once again basked in his warmth.

Maybe she should have stopped to wonder why he enjoyed her company. But she tried not to analyze why a rising star in his prime was smiling and spending time with an old has-been. She wanted to keep her dream alive. In the end she might have been too demanding of his attention, maybe she embarrassed him or misunderstood his words of caution.

“Was I merely a talented coach and voice teacher, an adoring audience of one? I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was an act. I had forgotten how to play. Life is now too precious to pretend.”

Slowly, suddenly feeling her years, she rises and walks to the exit. She hopes that he had not meant to discard her, but looking back, she realizes it was inevitable. After all, this city, as big as it is, is merely a very small town, where everyone runs in the same circles. reads the same columns, hears the same gossip.

Now, after the rehearsals, after watching him bask in applause and glow under the critic’s praise, the silence rings in her ears. After admiring his name on the marquee, squinting at the house lights and watching smudges of car lights through the taxi window, the loneliness is blinding. After the smell of his cold cream, the residue of sweat on his costume and the stale breath from the audience, the emptiness of her home offends her. After the tang of home-made ravioli, the sharpness of cheap chianti, the warmth of a food cart pretzel, all she tastes are tears.

“Though you left a void in my life, I’m glad we met.” She closes her door.

He made her remember how much she needs people to feel alive. For those few months while he might have pretended, he had given her the gift, even for a moment, of a swan song.

“No, I’m not sorry I fell for you.” She admits as she turns off the lights. “I’ll remember these months with a smile.”