A Showing at The Grief

The curtains open for the first act. There is but one performer, muttering to himself in the middle of the stage, the one he loved, pictured and framed, enfolded in his arms. The pit swells as he begins to dance. A waltz. There are murmurs in the mezzanine. Some smoke. Some drink. The curtains close on act one.

Out of the pit comes fire. The conductor demands more. Forte. Fortissimo. Louder and louder still. A march. The curtains rip open. He is stomping. First to the left. Then to the right. The picture frame is shattered at his feet. There is mayhem in the mezzanine. They yell. They cuss. They fight. The curtains close on act two.

The ushers plead with guests as the curtains open for the third act. Stragglers remain in the aisles. The man on stage falls to his knees, trying to piece together the broken frame. The pit plays so not to disturb him. Piano. He cuts his hand. He shouts. They fall mute in the mezzanine. The curtains close on act three.

The curtain opens for the final act. The man is still in the center of the stage. He sobs. The last note lingers. A fermata. The pit shrinks to nothingness. No one says a word. There is mourning in the mezzanine.

The curtains close. There is no applause. There are no jeers. The conductor steps down. The orchestra vanishes row by row.

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