The coincidence was too perfect. In Jeff’s mind, it wasn't a play at all; it was a beckoning.
Inside, the lobby smelled of dust and cheap floor wax. He bought a ticket with trembling hands and slipped into the darkened auditorium. There were barely twenty people in the audience, scattered like lonely islands in a sea of red velvet. When the house lights dimmed, Jeff leaned forward, his eyes searching the stage for her.
The curtain rose on a stylized garden. In the center stood a plywood fountain, painted to look like weathered stone. And then, she appeared.
It was Sarah. Or rather, "Elena." She was dressed in a flowing white gown that caught the blue stage lights, her hair pinned up with a single, silk lily. She looked ethereal, a vision plucked directly from the architecture of Jeff's dreams.
As she began her monologue—a tragic lament about a love lost to time—Jeff felt a surge of proprietary pride. He knew those words. He knew the longing behind them. He sat in the third row, exactly center, his face illuminated by the reflected glow of the stage.
Then, it happened.
During a pause in her speech, Sarah’s gaze swept the audience. It was a standard theatrical technique, but when her eyes landed on Jeff, she froze. Her breath hitched, audible even without the body mic. She recognized him. The "freak" from the park was here, in the dark, watching her.
To the rest of the audience, it was a masterful bit of acting—a moment of genuine, raw vulnerability. But to Jeff, it was the confirmation he had been craving. Her eyes widened, and a slight tremor took hold of her hands. She fumbled her next line, her voice pitching higher with a nervous edge.
She’s terrified of how much she loves me, Jeff thought, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across his face. She’s worried the man in the suit—the antagonist—will find out I’m here. She’s trying to warn me with her eyes.
Every time Sarah looked toward his section of the theater, her performance grew more frantic. She moved with a jerky, bird-like agitation. To Jeff, this wasn't stage fright; it was a secret dance meant only for him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the note, holding it up just high enough for the stage lights to catch the cream-colored paper.
He saw the moment she noticed it. Her face went pale under the heavy stage makeup. She turned away quickly, directing her lines to the back of the theater, her voice nearly a whisper.
"The shadow at the gate," she recited, her voice trembling, "is the only truth I know."
"I'm here, Elena," Jeff whispered back, loud enough for the couple in the row behind him to hiss for silence.
The play reached its climax. Elena was supposed to meet her lover at the fountain, but in this version—the one Jeff was writing in his head—the lover was an imposter. When the male lead stepped onto the stage—the same man from the park, who was apparently the theater’s lead actor—Jeff’s blood turned to ice.
The man took Sarah’s hands. She looked visibly relieved to have him there, leaning into him with a desperation that Jeff interpreted as a plea for protection.
He has her under a spell, Jeff realized. He’s using the play to keep her prisoner in this loop of fake emotions.
As the final curtain fell and the sparse audience began to clap, Jeff didn't stand. He waited. He watched the actors take their bows. Sarah looked exhausted, her eyes darting toward the exit. She didn't look at Jeff again, which he took as the ultimate sign of her inner turmoil. She couldn't look at him because the truth was too bright.
He slipped out of his seat and headed for the "Stage Door" sign he’d spotted earlier. The alleyway was damp and smelled of rain and industrial exhaust. He stood by the heavy steel door, the prop note clutched in his hand like a parley flag.
The door creaked open. A few bit players came out, laughing and lighting cigarettes. They ignored the man in the beige windbreaker. Then, Sarah emerged, flanked by the man in the suit. They were walking fast, their heads down, whispering urgently.
"Sarah, I'm calling the cops," the man was saying. "This is stalking. He’s right there."
Jeff stepped into the light of the single bulb over the door. "Elena! You don't have to pretend anymore. The play is over. I have the note! I know the code!"
Sarah let out a small, strangled sob and pulled her coat tighter around her. The man stepped forward, his fists clenched. "Listen to me, you lunatic. If you don't turn around and walk away right now, I'm going to lay you out. Stay away from my wife!"
Jeff looked at them, his mind working at lightning speed to incorporate this new data. Wife. A cover story. A brilliant, tragic layer of deception. He saw the fear in her eyes and translated it into a silent scream for rescue.
"I understand the stakes," Jeff said, his voice calm, almost saint-like. He held out the note. "But you dropped this. You left your heart in my wastepaper basket, Sarah. You can't take back a miracle."
The man lunged, but Sarah grabbed his arm, pulling him toward their car. "Don't, Mark! Just get in the car! Let’s just go!"
They scrambled into a silver sedan and peeled away, the tires screeching on the wet pavement. Jeff stood in the exhaust plume, watching the red taillights fade into the city fog.
He looked down at the note. A raindrop hit the paper, causing the midnight-blue ink to bleed, turning the word "Always" into a long, dark tear.
"She’s moved to the next location," Jeff whispered to the empty alley. He felt a strange, soaring sense of purpose. "She had to leave with him to keep the act alive. She’s counting on me to follow the trail."
He turned and began to walk, his pace brisk and confident. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he would find another sign. The world was full of trash, after all, and Jeff was the only one who knew how to read the poetry hidden within it.
No comments:
Post a Comment