by Destiny Davison (Writer's Choice)
Sonia waited for the sound of applause, although the house had long cleared and gone home for the night. She didn’t mind being left alone to herself, in fact, she preferred the silence...it gave her time to think. A half hour earlier, as the stagehands removed the set pieces and the orchestra packed up, Sonia had wanted nothing more than to be the only one on that stage. She watched them with glaring eyes and shuffled them out, assuring them that she would see them tomorrow (bright and early) so as to do it all over again. When at last she was alone, Sonia walked onto the stage and hoped that no one else would appear from the shadows. The stage was hers after all, and only she could lay claim to it. If a clap or shout from the audience sprung out from the darkness, Sonia would not have welcomed it, she would have backed into the curtains and hissed. It wasn’t a personal thing; Sonia just needed time and solidarity.
She was still dressed in costume, her tutu had long wilted, her powdered cheeks smeared and her pointe-shoe laces spiraled and undone. The only thing that had lasted was her hair, glued with seven layers of gel and spray in a high placed bun on her head. She would not allow her hair to hang down, or dare to sprawl it across her shoulders, for if she did the role would be forever lost. She would for forfeit the lines and limelight, the visions and the third bows. To let her hair down would mean the end of a world, a name that was dearer to her than any she had ever been given. To lose it would mean she would no longer be Giselle or Carmen, just a girl on a dim stage who did not want to leave. But she had to leave; the night hours swayed on but they could not take her with them. Instead, she stood and waited for the curtains to sink down, for the blanket red to overwhelm the stage lights and force her to undress and go home.
Sonia waited for the sound of applause, although the house had long cleared and gone home for the night. She didn’t mind being left alone to herself, in fact, she preferred the silence...it gave her time to think. A half hour earlier, as the stagehands removed the set pieces and the orchestra packed up, Sonia had wanted nothing more than to be the only one on that stage. She watched them with glaring eyes and shuffled them out, assuring them that she would see them tomorrow (bright and early) so as to do it all over again. When at last she was alone, Sonia walked onto the stage and hoped that no one else would appear from the shadows. The stage was hers after all, and only she could lay claim to it. If a clap or shout from the audience sprung out from the darkness, Sonia would not have welcomed it, she would have backed into the curtains and hissed. It wasn’t a personal thing; Sonia just needed time and solidarity.
She was still dressed in costume, her tutu had long wilted, her powdered cheeks smeared and her pointe-shoe laces spiraled and undone. The only thing that had lasted was her hair, glued with seven layers of gel and spray in a high placed bun on her head. She would not allow her hair to hang down, or dare to sprawl it across her shoulders, for if she did the role would be forever lost. She would for forfeit the lines and limelight, the visions and the third bows. To let her hair down would mean the end of a world, a name that was dearer to her than any she had ever been given. To lose it would mean she would no longer be Giselle or Carmen, just a girl on a dim stage who did not want to leave. But she had to leave; the night hours swayed on but they could not take her with them. Instead, she stood and waited for the curtains to sink down, for the blanket red to overwhelm the stage lights and force her to undress and go home.