The Man in the Audience

I moved to the bustling city, filled with bright lights and endless possibilities, driven by dreams that were larger than life. I envisioned myself gracing the illustrious stages of Broadway, captivating audiences with my performances and bringing Shakespeare’s timeless words to life with passion and depth. Each night, I imagined stepping into the spotlight, the applause washing over me, thrilled by being part of something extraordinary.

I dreamt of becoming the next big sensation, a star whose name would be whispered in awe and admiration. The energy of the city fueled my ambition, and I felt invincible, ready to conquer the world. I never doubted myself. Instead, I knew I could do it, I knew I could succeed. Oh, how naive I was. 

I worked as a waitress in an Italian restaurant nestled in Little Italy, where atmospheric Italian music filled the air, transporting you to a picturesque town in southern Italy—far away from the bustling streets of New York City. Clad in a crisp white button-up shirt and a knee-length black skirt, I wore stockings on chilly days and sleek black pumps, embodying the restaurant's charm. The guests adored me, drawn to my looks—a beautiful brunette with bright cerulean blue eyes and sun-kissed skin—as well as my upbeat demeanor and eagerness to please.

But not everyone was a fan. My manager, Francesca Gallo, a bitter Italian-American, seemed to seethe at the sight of me. She assigned me the most demanding tasks and whispered gossip to other servers behind my back. I couldn’t help but interpret her disdain as jealousy; I was young, vibrant, and full of life, while she seemed trapped in a cycle of bitterness.

And as for my dreams of being a Broadway star, I changed my name to Celeste Sinclair. I was born Sarah Burns. That’s boring and a brute reminder of home. And home was a small town in Maine where you worked dead end jobs or at the mill or not at all and you lived on government assistance. That’s not what I wanted. So Celeste Sinclair I became. I moved to New York City and never once looked back. I kept up with the latest fashion trends. I did my makeup immaculately. I spent time making myself look good. And I prayed every night that an agent or a casting director or someone would come into Gallo’s and see me and go, “Wow! That’s a star!” 

I grew up watching old movies. Lauren Bacall was my favorite actress and I craved to be just like her. Seductive and glamorous.  I styled my hair like hers. I did my eye makeup to resemble her cat-eyes. I stayed skinny, but not as skinny as she was. I was still curvy in a way that was modern which was something I loathed despite me restricting my caloric intake and intense exercises at my gym in my apartment building. 

Being half Italian, I took pride in speaking the language of my ancestors, and the guests at Gallo's appreciated it. The food was authentically Italian, made with seasonal ingredients, and the restaurant itself had a charming ambiance, with ivy climbing its walls and exposed brick that added character. I genuinely enjoyed my time there; it was a good job, despite Francesca’s relentless attempts to undermine me. Everyone saw through her bitterness and recognized that I was destined for greatness. I had left my old life in Maine behind, embracing a fresh start on the vibrant streets of New York. Deep down, I felt I was meant to shine. “Give it time,” my Nona had always told me. “It’ll come your way.”

I took acting classes at Marcello’s studio in Manhattan. Marcello frequently commented on my natural ability to emote and tell a story with my facial expressions. He told me to lose the accent (my native Mainer tongue) and focus on accustoming myself to a mid-Atlantic dialect, which I did after some time. But all the acting classes would be fruitless if I didn’t put them to use. So I auditioned for plays at a theater in Brooklyn and in the Spring, I was cast as a love interest in a play called The Loft. The director, Jensen Moody, was a brilliant man who saw my potential. “You’ve got what it takes, Celeste,” he commented after one practice of a particularly intense scene between me and the main character played by a young acting student named Gabriel Glen. 

“You really think so?” I said, starry eyed. His comment had filled me with warmth and stroked my ego. 

Jensen grinned and nodded. “Yes, I think so. Give it time, and you’ll be something great.”

Give it time. I kept hearing that. From my Nona, from Jensen, from my friend Lucy who took acting lessons with me at Marcello’s. It began to bore me and agitate me. I was eager, bright eyed and bushy-tailed. I craved stardom. When would it be my turn?

On opening night, I looked out past the curtains and saw a full house. This excited me. I felt like jumping out of my skin. Here were all these people, here to see me! And, of course, the other actors in the play. But Jensen made sure my name was on the poster and I was featured prominently. This annoyed some of the other actors, who also had big roles in the play. They thought I was sleeping with Jensen. I wasn’t. We only made out once but I’m pretty sure he was put off by the taste of cigarettes on my breath (I smoked like Lauren Bacall, too). And I was beyond beautiful on stage. I emoted well and I embraced the audience. I was going to be a star, no matter how long it was going to take. 

“Okay, everyone, gather around,” Jensen said. All of us actors gathered around him. “This is a big deal, it’s opening night. There are people out there who want to see a good show, who paid to see a good show, so let’s give them that. Okay?” We all nodded and he smiled. “Okay, great. Let’s get this show going!”

We all took our places, the anticipation palpable in the air. I was poised for the first scene, heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. Suddenly, the lights flared to life, bright and blinding, flooding the stage with a warm glow. The curtains swept wide open, revealing the world we had meticulously crafted. The energy in the room shifted as the audience settled in, and I could feel the weight of their gaze upon us, amplifying the thrill of the moment. It was time to breathe life into our characters and share our story.

Beyond the blinding lights, I spotted a figure in the audience. My heart skipped a beat—there was something undeniably familiar about him. I squinted, straining to catch a clearer look of his features as my curiosity intensified. Was it the way he sat, or perhaps the tilt of his head that triggered a spark of recognition? I leaned forward, eager to decipher the haze of bright illumination surrounding him. Each passing second felt like an eternity as I tried to piece together why he seemed so important, why my instincts told me I knew him well. 

“Hurry, Shelley, or we’ll miss the bus,” Gabriel said his line perfectly, looking at his watch just as he was directed to. It was my turn to speak, but I couldn’t find the words. I turned my head to him, eyes wide. Gabriel could see it on my face; I couldn’t remember my line. 

My mouth was dry. This never happened. I always remembered my lines. I practiced all the time with my roommate and even on my own. My bottom lip trembled. I spotted Jensen who looked at me with rage. How could I do this? And on opening night of all nights? I pushed a smile. “I’ll get my bag,” I managed to say and walked over to the railing attached to the wall, part of the set. My hands shook as I reached for the bag. 

“This is so typical of you,” Gabriel said, with a bit of unease. “You always make us late.”

I rolled my eyes, just as Jensen had directed me to during rehearsal. I still struggled to remember my lines. “Because you never give me enough time, Luke,” I said, remembering my line. “A woman needs time to make herself look good. Don’t you understand?” I found that familiar face in the audience again. He intrigued me. He intimidated me a little bit. He was square-shouldered, with dark eyes and dark hair. My heart beat rapidly in my chest. 

“Right, right,” Gabriel sighed. “You always have to look presentable.”

We went on with the scene until the lights dimmed and the curtains closed, and everyone scrambled to change the set. I put my face in my hands as I walked off stage. I was so embarrassed. Jensen rushed to me. “What the hell, Celeste?” I shook my head, meeting his eyes. “You never forget your lines and now you do once you have an actual audience in front of you?”

I didn’t have an answer for him. I felt so stupid. He sneered and shook his head. “Better not happen again. I refuse to have my show ruined by some wannabe starlet.”

I nervously chewed my bottom lip as I settled back into position, hand in hand with Gabriel. We stood together at the bus stop set, the familiar surroundings amplifying my anxiety as we awaited our cue. My palm felt clammy against his, a reminder of the adrenaline coursing through me. When the curtains parted once more, my gaze immediately found the man from before, lingering in the audience.

His presence tugged at my memory, and I mentally sifted through every possible encounter that might explain my sense of recognition. Was it at a coffee shop? A community event? The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I had no time to dwell on it. As we continued with the play, the rhythm of our performance took over, allowing me to focus on the characters we portrayed rather than the mystery in the crowd.

The show flowed seamlessly, and when the final scene concluded, the audience erupted into applause, giving us a standing ovation. A wave of relief washed over me as we took our bows, the sound of clapping filling the theater like a warm embrace. I glanced at Jensen, who stood at the front of the stage, a proud smile lighting up his face as he soaked in the adoration from the crowd.

As the final applause faded, I felt a thrill of excitement for what came next—the afterparty awaited us. The air was electric with celebration, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that the night was just beginning. I wondered if the mystery man would be at the afterparty. 

As I entered the room the afterparty was being held in, my face was still painted with stage makeup but I wore a sleek black dress and red high heels. I searched the crowd for the mystery man until I found him at the bar. I swallowed hard and approached the bar and ordered a Vodka cranberry. The mystery man smiled at me. “You were great up there,” he said. I gawked at him at first and then eased into my usual flair. 

“Thank you,” I said, not being able to hold back a blush. “Have-Have we met before?”

His smile widened. “I think I’d remember if we did.”

I tilted my head slightly, my brow furrowing as I continued to ponder where I might have seen him before. Thoughts raced through my mind like scattered leaves in the wind, each potential memory flickering just out of reach. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling that our paths had crossed before, and the nagging curiosity pulled at me like a thread waiting to be unraveled. Was it a fleeting glance on a crowded subway, or did we share a connection that ran deeper? Each scenario danced in my imagination, making me acutely aware of the possibilities that swirled around this stranger that was in the audience. As I continued to observe him, my mind raced to connect the dots, hoping to uncover the truth behind the familiarity that felt both comforting and unsettling at the same time.

“I’m Enzo Ruben,” he said, extending his hand. I took it. His grip was firm. And as he pulled away, I remembered; Cisco’s, two weeks ago. I saw him drinking with a group of men while I was there with a couple girlfriends. And just as I was entranced by him then, I was enchanted by him now. He had such a magnificent aura. He was handsome and suave, impeccably dressed and his hair meticulously styled. 

“I’m Celeste,” I said, my smile growing and my cheeks burning red. 

“Celeste. Lovely name.”

“Thank you. It’s a stage name,” I giggled nervously. I was annoyed with myself. I never act this way about men. I barely gave them any thought. “Do you come to the theater often?”

“I do. Jensen is an acquaintance of mine. I come here looking for the next Broadway star.”

My heart skipped a beat. I swallowed hard. I tried to calm myself, to not appear too eager. “Oh how interesting. So you’re a talent scout?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

I nodded slowly. My heart felt like it would pound out my chest. 

“I’d like to invite you to an audition. You don’t sing by chance, do you?”

“I mean, I can, if I need to.”

He reached into his dress coat pocket and pulled out a business card, holding it out to me. I gently grabbed it from his hand and looked down at it in amazement. “Good. Give me a call and I’ll find you a part to audition for in an upcoming play.”

I beamed at him. “Will do. Thank you.”

He nodded at me, finishing his drink and slapping down a twenty dollar bill. “Sounds like a plan, Celeste.”

I watched him as he walked away. He had an interesting flair. Not dramatic but confident. I looked back down at the card and it struck me; All my dreams, all my wishes, everything that I was called crazy for wanting and striving for, was coming true. I could’ve cried at that moment. I turned to see one of my co-stars, Leianna. She looked at me with interest and jealousy. I ignored the sense of jealousy and threw my arms around her. “I’m going to be a star, Leianna!” I whispered in her ear. 

Oh, how naive I was, a starry-eyed girl wandering the vibrant streets of New York City. There was something undeniably joyful about that innocence, that unwavering belief in the magic of the moment. If only I had known then what I know now—if I had glimpsed the twists and turns that awaited me, I might have tempered my excitement. I might have savored those fleeting moments more fully, cherishing the bliss of ignorance instead of yearning for what lay ahead. In my eagerness, I had overlooked the complexities of life, the shadows that lingered just beyond the glittering skyline. But perhaps that naivety was a gift in itself, allowing me to dream boldly, even if the reality was a little harsher than the fantasies I once held. I was a stupidly, starry girl and now, I’m a hermit living back in Maine with only the memories of a glimpse of stardom to keep me going. To be that naive girl again…I’d give anything. And I rue the day that I met Enzo Ruben.