Opening Night

Backstage smells. An acquired taste, it’s not unpleasant, but specific and familiar. A symphony of old wood, dusty fabric, hot lights, hairspray, and bodies in motion. The dressing room air conditioner has stopped working and there are too many sticky people jostling for real estate in front of the mirror. Elbows knock together, but no apologies follow. No one bothers, for it will happen again and again.

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