At the Theatre

At the Theatre

Dmitriy Royuk

© Dmitriy Royuk, 2023

ISBN 978-5-0059-8203-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

At the Theater

I’m not afraid to fall in love. Neither in art nor in life. For the average person, love does less harm than, for example, buying a plane ticket and getting into a plane crash. Or having a heart attack at the climax of a dramatic play in the theater, not because of the tragic performance, but based on the statistics. Heart attacks occur eight times more often than plane crashes. And suicides due to love mostly happen in movies.

Millions of people die in wars for money. They use love as a cover.

I’m waiting for the lights to go out in the theater. Then I take a deep breath through my nose to steady my heart rate. Usually, it takes me three minutes. But I have to interrupt my meditation because you, sitting next to me, quietly sob into your hand.

– I understand your disappointment. You’re in pain. I know what it’s like. But believe me, very few people actually die from love. It’s just a writer’s invention.

Until that moment, you were staring intently at the stage, but now you turned and looked at me as if I didn’t exist before. You didn’t even realize that someone was sitting next to you. The advantage of theater boxes is that because there is enough space between the chairs to place a coffee table, you can almost imagine that you are alone. And because of the general atmosphere of tension, no one interrupts this illusion. Even short discussions («He played brilliantly») are kept to a minimum to remain lost in the world of your own experiences. Because of the abundance of free space, you can move without creating discomfort for the neighbor who is sitting in the same box as you.

I could tell by your expression that you had some doubt that it was me who spoke, not a voice from behind the scenes. You couldn’t immediately tell that I broke the rule of theater boxes and shattered the silence between us. You adjusted your unbuttoned jacket, giving me a glimpse of your flat, white stomach. Catching my gaze on the mole on your right side, you quickly covered yourself up as if you were wrapped in a blanket. There was something about your black jacket, I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I assume it’s associated with something important to you. Looking at your expensive clothes, I can guess that you’ve never sat in the back rows, staring at the backs of other viewers. You’ve never had to squeeze into tiny amphitheater seats. You’ve paid extra to cry alone. And somehow, here I am. Firstly, I haven’t done anything criminal. And secondly…

You started to cry, thus disturbing my peace. At the moment when my world narrowed as I looked at the stage, you began to shed tears. On the one hand, you did it quietly, turning away from me. But on the other hand – I am a man. I couldn’t just leave it like that. Your makeup – streaked face looked angry, yet alluring. As if I had seen you laughing on a magazine cover yesterday and I was sure I could bring back your emotions in exchange for an exclusive smile in my direction. Or perhaps you looked angry because the black mascara outlined the strict oval of your face? I’ve always had a weakness for cold beauty. I handed you a paper napkin that the administrator brought with water when you asked him for a headache pill before the session started.

– Thank you, – you said, and your face briefly brightened. Then you dabbed your eyes with the napkin and sniffled again. The storm inside you didn’t subside.

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