What I didn’t expect was for it to capture, in one moment in one glorious scene, something so profound and real that it helped me remember who I was, let alone what I wanted to write.
“GIVE ME THAT,” Trixie Franklin demanded, holding out her hand.
Absently, Jenna handed over the first five pages. She was still reading the rest.
Trixie squinted at the print, then rummaged through her bag for the glasses she never let anyone see she wore and slipped them on. A tiny crease appeared between her eyebrows as she read.
“What?” she muttered. “No. I would never say that. Or that. Is it all like this?”
GABRIEL ZACARTE HAD SEEN plenty of shows in his time. He had worked with amazing casts of performers, the best in the world. He had seen acts that, even though he himself had imagined them from the ground up, left him speechless with delight when they became tangible. He had seen the magic that happens between audience and performers, between the performers themselves, on those nights where some subtle shift in awareness happened for everyone involved.