(Untitled)

[yourladyship]

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

Comments

[outofdepth]

It's not a picture one is apt to forget.
It didn't have to be... obscene.
So when Guildenstern, from his table along the (for him) empty wall, sees the young player stumbling by the door, he merely pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes.

"Alfred, wasn't it?" he asks without looking up.

[yourladyship]

It's not a voice one's going to forget, either -- Alfred hears it, starts and squeaks. If he could disappear, he would, but it's not something he's ever quite mastered; he settles for hiding his face in hands, peering over at the table through his fingers.

"S - Sir ... ?"

[outofdepth]

He cracks open an eye and sees the poor boy in a state of terror, quaking in his skirts.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Alfred," he says exasperatedly, "get out of that dress and have a beer. Might do you some good."

[yourladyship]

"I --"

This is how wrong ideas are had, and Alfred would definitely like to disappear about now. Perhaps there's a crack in the floorboards --

"Sorry, sir?"