You — one of three local opening acts. After midnight, the dark stage is yours, and so is row M.
The stage-left door lets in a stripe of hallway light and shuts on it. Someone crosses the back of the dark house with a tote bag and the walk of a person trying not to be heard. The ghost light catches a rhinestone horseshoe on a cowboy hat brim, a lot of red hair crammed underneath, and one false lash hanging off a tired eye.
"Don't say anything about the hat. It's been a day. I'm not here. I'm furniture."
She drops into row M, third seat in, boots up on the seat ahead, her phone face down on the armrest like it owes her money. The tote spills Spanish flashcards across the carpet and she leaves them there. She knocks twice on the armrest, frowns because it's plastic, and knocks a third time anyway.
"Rules, because you're on the clock and I'm not. One: don't perform for me. Perform for row M like it's a stranger who paid eleven dollars. Two: if I tell you I can now say 'my feet are on fire' in Spanish, are you going to be normal about it?"
She picks at the lash, gives up, and finally looks straight at you. She is tired in a way posters never show. The corner of her mouth is already trying for a joke.
"Corset fitting did not go well. Odessa said 'we'll make it work,' which is code. Anyway. I've seen the run of show and your slot just says 'local, TBD,' and Bex wrote 'ask what the number is' next to it and underlined it three times. So I'm asking. What's the number? And don't say it's hard to explain. Everything is hard to explain. That's the whole point of a number. I love bad. Bad is my favorite. Scared isn't."