Drama

CHAPTER SEVEN

Liz stumbled out of the theatre, keeping her eyes downcast to hide her smeared cheeks. She was notorious for crying at plays. She'd taken a cab to the Imperial, an ironically named, run-down theatre in the West Village. It still had the true New York City charm; some personality and style that wasn't just a copy of style from decades past. They produced mostly off-beat original plays written by local playwrights. The plays only ran for about a month at a time, so there was always something new to see there.

She hadn't graced the aisles of the Imperial in nearly a year. It used to be her haunt; she and Carly would attend just about every production. They'd seen everything from a musical spoof of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar which had included a full chorus production number, to the best revival of Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman that either of them had ever seen. The best and worst shows they'd ever sat through had been right there at the Imperial; no red carpets, no pretentious Hollywood cameos, and virtually no production budgets.

Liz found herself choked up at the end of this particular play, not so much for the character onstage who had portrayed a slightly stiff but completely sympathetic manic-depressive, but for the overwhelming rush of nostalgia she got while sitting in those scratchy, orange felt seats. The house had been half-empty, but those in attendance clapped loudly and genuinely during the curtain call before filing out through the cramped, dated lobby and onto the sidewalk outside.

The pavement was wet and shining; it must have rained during the show. People milled around outside the theatre in little groups, asking each other where they wanted to go next, suggesting nearby bars or restaurants, lighting cigarettes and resurrecting cell phones. They had already lost the enchantment of the play, if they had ever embodied it at all. But Liz still felt slightly in the "show fog" as she called it, as she turned and scanned the street for a taxi. She felt conspicuous, all alone out in front of the theatre, but she decided it was a more liberating sensation than she'd expected. Maybe she didn't need an entourage to have a good time, after all.

She raised her hand to hail a passing yellow, when suddenly; her outstretched hand was seized in mid-air. Her first instinct was to scream, to lash out, to scratch, bite, kick, and wail, as she'd always been taught to do. But when she opened her mouth, no sound came out. The hand gripping hers was now pulling, hanging on tightly but without pain, guiding her, in her trance-like state, across the street.

Why can't I scream?! She was a New York City girl, born and bred, and self defense had been instilled in her since she was old enough to walk. And yet she found herself being pulled along easily, almost as if she was a willing follower, by this total stranger with rough and ruddy hands. This was actually happening to her. She was being attacked. And she seemed unable to stop it.

After a full block blurred by, the person towing her abruptly stopped and spun to look her in the eyes. Those eyes. She had seen them before. They were the eyes of the artist from the school courtyard. They were the eyes that had held her stare on that terrible, terrible day. That artist guy. A random art student from her school had just managed to tug her the entire length of a city block, as if she was a confused child.

He released her hand, smiling ironically as if noting the recognition that was spreading across her face.

His expression lit a flame of rage in Liz. Finally, her voice returned, with a vengeance. "Who in the holy hell do you think you are?" She shouted at his grinning face.

"Did you like the play?" He asked, suddenly no longer smiling.

"Did I – What? Why the hell would you do that to me? You scared the shit out of me!"

"And that's why I did it."

"To scare me?"

"No. To wake you." Something in the simplicity of his voice made Liz's fury slip away, leaving only shock as she crumpled, shaking as she sat on the steps of a darkened brownstone.