InkStains January by John Urbancik

through which nothing is visible.
    Kenny tells her, “I don’t know how long I’ll
be.”
    “ That’s okay,” she says.
“If I don’t wait, you can find me at number 75 Stone
Lane.”

24 January
     
    One day off per month.

25 January
     
    She faces the mirror and, quite carefully,
applies her make-up – a touch of color here, a shadow there, hints
and suggestions. She’s brilliantly lit, perhaps harshly, by a
border of lights surrounding the mirror. It’s for the stage, for
the actress or chorus girl or showgirl or dancer. The light
highlights every possible weakness in her armor until there are
none. She works diligently to make sure of it. Though the lights
can be garish, the application never is. She’s an expert. Despite
the time she spends in the mirror, she creates neither a mask nor a
façade. She accentuates and de-accentuates. She draws out her
perfections, and her perfect imperfections. There’s no need to
hide. She’s a star, even if only in her own life.
    She sits at a single table among many, a row
of round bulbs surrounding rectangular mirrors, but hers alone are
lit. The ceiling is high, the walls far off on every side, the
stage an even wider, higher, more open place than any mountain or
rooftop or city hall. The stage is huge enough to handle ballet or
opera or a cast of hundreds. There are five thousand empty seats,
on the ground, in the mezzanine, and in the balcony. The curtains
are thick and red, the wood dark and highly polished. A single
spotlight shines on the stage, lighting, as yet, nothing and no
one, waiting for the arrival of its star, its target, its hope. A
spotlight without a star is just a circle of light.
    There are no ushers, no tickets being sold,
no one manning the concession stands. No one in the restroom will
offer a hand towel or a fresh mint or a spray of cologne. The hall
is dark. Outside, there are no posters, where once there had been
posters, no promises of shows to come, no threat that you might
miss something. The State Theatre’s majesty is cracked and faded,
and there’s a wrecking ball in its future.
    But not tonight.
    The make-up must be powerful enough to reach
the cheap seats. Everyone’s paid what they can; they should get
what they paid for. The orchestra pit sinks empty and hollow. When
she rises from her chair before the mirror, her heels echo
brilliantly on the wood floor.
    It’s show time. The theatre is at absolute
quiet except for the echo of her footfalls. She does not hurry. She
steps out from behind the curtains, onto the stage, exposed for
everyone to see. She walks with confidence to the mere circle of
light and fills it. She feels the thrill of expectation, the depth
of desire, the unmitigated anticipation. She takes a breath.
    She lets loose with the first note. It
travels the length of the theatre, it reaches into the future and
the past, it resonates and vibrates even as a second note is
formed.
    The words are old, a foreign language, but no
less powerful. Each note is perfect. She loses herself to the song,
as she always has. The words don’t mean as much as the emotions,
and the emotion is not built upon the song but expressed through
it: a desperate yearning; wishes and dreams fulfilled, shattered,
scattered; hope; sorrow; hopeful sorrow and sorrowful hope. The
song is merely an instrument. The message is in the notes.
    When the song is over, her arms are
outstretched and her head held high. She quivers. She perspires.
She pants. She gave everything she had to give, and kept giving,
and none of that effort was wasted.
    A heartbeat before the last echo of her final
note fades, the crowd erupts into applause. She bows, to this side
and that side, to the center; she accepts a bouquet of roses, and
other flowers are tossed onto the stage. The audience came from all
times and all places, ghosts of the deceased and the living and the
unborn, drawn by the simple beauty, the inescapable elegance, the
overwhelming effect of her final, aching