Sunday evening, as each rehearses their own story

I wonder what they are whispering about, as they cock their heads, their laughter muffled, a bit too wild. Their bodies bending forward to express a conspiracy fit for a Sunday evening in the theatre.

They are not particularly well dressed. Perhaps, that too, is a statement. An act of rebellion. Some smile at one another with an artificial symphony through their crooked lips and their keen eyes. Others ignore one another on purpose. And that is a story upon itself, isn't it?

I take pictures of the overlapping posters. The curtain will rise soon. The darkness of the wide space will force us all to face ourselves, for fleeting moments before we are swept away into the lives of others.

Their stories, however violent, and unsimilar to ours, hold a pinch or two of our own reflection. Of what once was. 
I often arrive late so I don't have to uncover their lives without meaning to. This Sunday evening, I arrived early. And all the stories of those bearing the artificial smiles, unfolded in front of my eyes. 

I must remember to stand at the window tomorrow.
For no particular reason other than, to celebrate The people who came early to the theatre. It seems, unlike me, they always do. The Curtain will soon rise. We descend the stairs. Some slowly, hesitantly. Others with courage and what might seem like forcefulness. Some celebrities are here. This man finds me attractive. He tells me so with his happy welcoming smile.

I smile back.

He darts forward through the crowd.
And I prepare myself to face my demons for a fleeting second or two, when the hall becomes steeper somehow.
Or perhaps drowns in complete darkness.
Some continue their whispering. Others bury their heads in their cell phones, continuing heated arguments, and life changing virtual encounters.

Maybe, I will throw away my old clothes. Wear some colorful ones.
And accept life's invitation to stop performing.
To dance inside the shimmering silver light.
I fold the paper I keep rereading out of habit. Out of fear of forgetting and moving on. I lean forward to pry on their whispers.
But then, suddenly the curtain rises, and the characters frighten me with their violence. I cover my face so I can stop hearing them.

I must remember to stand by the window tomorrow.
Wave at the man who offered me a genuine, happy smile, before disappearing midst the crowd.

Tonight, he is busy rehearsing his own story.