(no subject)
Every exit is an entrance somewhere else -- and the case in point, a certain, squeaking Cleopatra -- a blonde Elizabethan player-queen, in skirts and frills and silly shoes that make him trip the moment he steps backstage. But this is not backstage, not the one he expected, not the court, but the tavern ... or not.
With startled-startling eyes Alfred glances around the bar, stammers an "ex-excuse me" to no one in particular. He turns, to flee (and trips, of course) (he will never get used to those shoes).
With startled-startling eyes Alfred glances around the bar, stammers an "ex-excuse me" to no one in particular. He turns, to flee (and trips, of course) (he will never get used to those shoes).