“I thought you’d forgotten me.” I purse my lips. I have a hundred questions, but this is not the time to ask them.
“Tell me, what do you think of our leading man?”
“He’s…” I can’t catch my breath, can’t think of a word.
“Taylor O’Neal is white light.” Dionysus purrs.
“Yes.” My cheeks burn. “Yes, exactly. How eloquent.”
“I wanted you to see him for yourself—experience him before we made a decision.”
My brains, my ambitions, my emotions all bound up, race forward and leap upward. My soul somersaults inside my head. “Are you one of the producers?”
The buzz of the lobby is drowned out by a manic bell clanging in my ears. I see no one—no one except Kristen Jameson on stage at the Minskoff in her Broadway debut. It's only a part in the chorus, but since the show is Witches, she's the envy of every wannabe in the business.
This is the night I will change you forever. This is your destiny. Taylor O’Neal sings to me.
“A producer of Witches?” Dionysus cackles. “No, although it would have been a fine idea.”
“Then—?”
Mark presses against my shoulder and hands me a flute of champagne. Dionysus nods to him.
“If you’ll excuse me, I shall not make a scene and walk in late for Act II.” He eases himself through the crowd of bodies and disappears into the house.
“Do you know him?” Mark asks, intrigued. “He looks important. Wealthy.”
I nod, euphoric and utterly baffled. We drink our champagne, and then make our way to our seats as the house lights blink.
As many times as I’ve listened to the Witches cast recording, I’ve never traveled beyond the score itself to acknowledge the artist who brings the music to life. Taylor’s baritone is black magic. He seduces me as he seduces the witches onstage. Throughout the audience, I hear sighs. I’m not the only woman who’s having this reaction. Mark nudges me and smiles as if to say, I told you so.
Taylor’s performance earns our accolades at curtain call. The standing ovation is deafening. “God, I’d love to work with him.” I whisper to Mark.
“Maybe I can help.” Mark sounds sincere, but I chalk it up to his Wall Street god-complex.
I’m aware of a paradigm shift that occurred inside me during the second Act. My statement to Mark is inaccurate. I didn’t express what I really want. The dream of performing in Witches has lost its allure. It’s now another common dream that felt vital during sleep but fades upon waking. Although I’m experiencing a completely new phenomenon, I do know how to define it. Although I never thought it could happen, I’m falling in love. This sensation is both blissful and terrifying.
Despite his earlier enthusiasm, Dionysus stands quietly during the standing ovation. I wonder what could have possibly provoked him. When the cast exits the stage for the last time, he turns to me.
“I suggest you stop by the stage door, Kristen. Taylor appreciates compliments.”
“Will you be there?”
The old man looks tired. “I may stop to watch, but I shall not interfere.”
“But—”
“Thank you, young man, for your patience at my rude entrance. I hope you enjoyed your evening with his beautiful girl.” Dionysus says to Mark.
Mark, as cordial as if he were soliciting a client, asks the man if he would like to join us for a late dinner. Dionysus declines.
Unless I know a performer personally, I never do the stage door. I don’t do fan. I live for theatre, but I’ve never been fanatic about any performer. This has been my rule, but instantly this rule is moot.
By the time we’re out of the lobby and approach the stage door, a crowd of adorers has congregated ahead of us. I catch the glint of Dionysus’ hair. Although I try to get closer to him, I can’t. In the crush, I lose Mark, too.
Following an exodus of cast members, the stage door finally opens to a burst of applause. Resisting worship with irresistible grace from an onslaught of fans, a man in ragged jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt claims ownership of his domain. He also claims unconditional ownership of me.
I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. I can’t get near enough to Taylor to compliment him as Dionysus suggested. Many of the fans act aggressive and inappropriately possessive of Taylor. Women hug him. Taylor smiles repeatedly as cameras flash. He signs Playbills, t-shirts, and even bare hands. Claustrophobic standing here, I have inadvertently joined a scene in which I have no creative control.
As Taylor slides forward, someone behind me pushes me toward him. I see a skeletal hand on my arm. Dionysus guides me into the actor’s path. The pressure is more than I can bear. “I can’t.” I say, shivering in the summer heat.
“Why?” Dionysus breathes in my ear. “Why would you be afraid of him?
“Because Taylor is…white light.”
“Then embrace the light, Kristen.” He laughs. “Timing is everything. Take your cue.” He gives me a gentle shove.
“Bravo.” I stammer as Taylor and I intersect.
Taylor simply glances at me with translucent eyes and says thank you with shyness too obvious to be false. My heart stops. The world stops. Something happens—a climax I thought belonged only in the fantasy world of drama, but I’m not pretending. I have no script. Violent longing crashes through my protective fortress. My incarcerated soul dances free as I am whisked upward by the melody of Taylor’s voice to a dimension beyond the plane of my expectations.
High above, I meet face-to-face with the unbearable elegance of the god of theatre—the god of all ecstasy. My bewitching muse reveals his delicious secrets to me. I hear the musical score he is composing for Taylor and me. I see the glorious script he is writing. In my epiphany, everything changes. The previous markers of my ambitions disappear. Dreams that yesterday gleamed like gold are tawdry. The whole of my life is inferior to this one fleeting sensation.
