Meanwhile in the Green Room
Down the badly lit corridor behind the soundstage, behind the door marked "Pont-au-Change - CAST AND CREW ONLY," a man waited patiently. Perhaps that's not strong enough of a word, for the man had been waiting nearly five years for something to happen. But this man was used to such glacial periods, epochs of waiting, in which entire universes blazed to life and snuffed out again with the regularity of a fine Swiss watch. In the waiting room of the Afterlife, Job would have given up and left long before this man gave the notion half a thought.
Nowhere existed a man with greater ability to wait than this one, except perhaps the one seated across from him: obscured by the newspaper he held before his face, able to lean back in his chair in a relaxed manner and yet be rigid and upright at the same time. For where the first man was the paragon of patience, the second was equally anomalous, for both had during their long acquaintenceship out waited the other in a way that might in another venue be called a pas de deux.
Down the echoing corridor steps approached, heavy steps, running steps; they grew quicker and louder as they approached the room. The first man looked to the door but the second, still clutching his paper with one hand, merely raised a finger heavenward, paused, poised--
At the moment he thrust his finger toward the door, in the manner of Jupiter hurling a thunderbolt, the door flew open. A woman, middle aged, out of breath, her face beaming with excitement, yelled "Guess what??"
From behind the newspaper came the reply, a deep growl like a wolf in human guise: "They're making a movie version of the musical."
"They're making a movie ver--" Her face froze, then contorted into shock, followed by disappointment, then topped with rage. She thrust her arms forward, her middle fingers extended, and screamed "FUCK YOU!" She left the door wide open behind her, her footsteps did not echo on the way out.
The first gentleman coughed politely and loosened the collar of his shirt, his blush contrasting neatly with his white shock of hair.
The second gentleman smirked behind his newspaper. This was going to be a very amusing year.
Nowhere existed a man with greater ability to wait than this one, except perhaps the one seated across from him: obscured by the newspaper he held before his face, able to lean back in his chair in a relaxed manner and yet be rigid and upright at the same time. For where the first man was the paragon of patience, the second was equally anomalous, for both had during their long acquaintenceship out waited the other in a way that might in another venue be called a pas de deux.
Down the echoing corridor steps approached, heavy steps, running steps; they grew quicker and louder as they approached the room. The first man looked to the door but the second, still clutching his paper with one hand, merely raised a finger heavenward, paused, poised--
At the moment he thrust his finger toward the door, in the manner of Jupiter hurling a thunderbolt, the door flew open. A woman, middle aged, out of breath, her face beaming with excitement, yelled "Guess what??"
From behind the newspaper came the reply, a deep growl like a wolf in human guise: "They're making a movie version of the musical."
"They're making a movie ver--" Her face froze, then contorted into shock, followed by disappointment, then topped with rage. She thrust her arms forward, her middle fingers extended, and screamed "FUCK YOU!" She left the door wide open behind her, her footsteps did not echo on the way out.
The first gentleman coughed politely and loosened the collar of his shirt, his blush contrasting neatly with his white shock of hair.
The second gentleman smirked behind his newspaper. This was going to be a very amusing year.