Opera House

Overture

Suddenly, the deafening silence catapulted into the vast amphitheatre gallery. No thunderous cheers,--devoid of any congratulatory screams and rumbling applause from the patrons. In the absence of audiences, the tiers and balconies looked glum.

The orchestra pit lacked all the needed instruments, but it didn't lack all the stands made for music chord sheets.

Usually, the harsh strobe lights emanating the warmest shade of citron and pale whites would enliven the stage.  But this time, what would be the performers' ground looked nothing like the façade of an intricately-made set. No props made out of cardboard and wood planks, no lavish ornaments. Nothing. Just a pitch black void of desolation and emptiness.

In the absence of flourescent lights throughout the expanse of the whole auditorium, was a single spotlight coming from the second tier of the balcony. It was the perfect alignment to highlight what is yet to be seen on stage.

The booming voices, the pre-performance jitters, the crammed murmurs from staff backstage, and the prop personnel in the wings and rafters making last minute adjustments, are all non-existent. The oncoming company huddle on what could be the moments before an Opening Night is only supplied with two heartbeats and steady breaths.

No one else was around.

There was just Bright and Win.

Bright lived reeling into the feel of the thin and weightless baton, feeling high and mighty commanding to elicit a sultry sound from the violinists, urging the cellists to emerge into pulsing crescendos and decrescendos. He loved taking hold of the notes to spring out of the trombones and the saxophones, the hums and thrums of the trumpets, and the occassional thumping of drums and cymbals.

Bright lived for the concerto.

But this time, he abandons his post from his sanctuary in the concerto master's podium and sat by the grand piano now grazing the stage. His musical chord sheets laid haphazardly on top of it. The nook where the grand piano laid was nothing short of an 1800's common room. To give more of a Renaissance tinge to it, was a single oil lamp perched atop it, just beside the coffee-stained chord sheets. Between the oil lamp and the adonis about to hit the keys, Bright shone brighter like a duke out of a Renaissance painting.

Inhaling a shaky breath, Bright adjusted the collar of his double-breasted, bespoke paisley suit. The grey patterns of filigree and baby magpies barely noticeable. His collar was chafing. Taking matters in his own hands, he undid two buttons from his crisp white shirt inside. Better.

Bright had sunken in a more serene demeanour when he aims his gaze at Win, standing a few meters from the piano.

Win devoted his life to ballet.

It's not always sparkly tutus, and fancy lace and frills. Most times before you reach the showtime glamour, time will always be spent in beat-up pointé shoes, and sweaty leotards. Tedious rehearsals go on for hours on end, barre exercises seem like it could go on forever, and one too many pirouettes and arabesque lifts you could barely catch your breath. His limbs ache, the pads of his feet bruised and covered in blisters, but with ballet, Win had the endurance of a bull.

The dove grey material of his scoop-necked bodysuit hugged all his curves, accentuating all the muscles he'd acquired from years spent in training and workshops. The black of his cotton tights accentuating his slender and toned legs. With his hair scooped back primly and his forehead on full show, Win looked like the caricature of a young, Victorian boy.