Rehearsal

We're backstage, giddy with nerves and

tired out of our minds, whisper-laughing as we mess 

with our hair, with each other, try to put on makeup in the dark. 

Onstage, people are talking, and their voices emanate through the curtain

while we sit on top of the radiator

waiting for our turn.

There are shoes strewn about, clothes on the ground, 

a clammy, claustrophobic closeness filling the air around us.

A Gracie Abrams song is stuck in my head, and I'm

holding someone's hand, as if it's a reflex, 

while the opening chords of "Agony" break out mere feet away. 

My friend teaches a guy who plays my boyfriend in a scene

the sign language alphabet 

while two others play chopsticks, and

I'm thinking about how I never was good at that game, 

how I always seemed to lose,

and what's the objective anyway?
To have the most chopsticks? I don't know.

My next scene isn't for a while, so I sit waiting,

annoyed by the cold air blowing from the radiator, half-listening 

to the people onstage, weaving in and out of whispered conversation.

Are my shoes too scuffed? 

Do you have gum?
What's in that box?
Am I next?

Time stretches on, sticky and full of static.

People come and go, met with hugs and high-fives

upon their return. 

It's not opening night yet, but it will be soon, and anticipation

coats our words, our gestures, our shaky laughs. 

But for just right now, we wait

for when we can step out from behind the curtain

and into a world of colored lights and make-believe.