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Not quite off stage, I stop, turn towards you, and bow with an uncommon fit of humility stoking my happiness that I have pleased you.
You are my inspiration, and you were for the piece. I did it for you. I saw the crowd as just decoration. "This whole thing is she and I," I think to myself.
Then, as I stand up after the bow, staring with a broad grin at you standing tall, beautiful and alone across the audience, my stomach knots up. I fear you will be hurt by shifting your weight ever so slightly on the chair so the back of the seat moves down, you slip down between the seat and the chair's back, and the seat slams closed on you.
I shout "Oh, Dear, please don't move. Please don't devastate me by moving. Really, no pun intended. Don't wave. Don't smile. Don't breathe. Let me rescue you."
I jump from the stage and run towards you while the crowd starts to rustle and there are whispers of "What's going on?"
Just as I reach you and lift you safely off the seat, while you whisper into my ear "Have you gone berserk?" and then plant a wonderful kiss on my cheek, an old cynic in the crowd, one of your former English teachers I think, shouts "Oh, hell, don't any of you realize that all of this is a play and we've just seen the beginning of the second act?"
With that the crowd then breaks into applause, as we rush hand in hand out of the building, wondering "What are we supposed to do now?"
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