The curtain rises.

He’s at the back again, lurking in the shadows.

“Come closer. Sit,” she beckons. Red-painted fingernails trail up her thigh as she spreads her legs.

He slinks forward and sits before her, hands clutched, chin low. 

She smiles and performs, led by no instruction other than the need in his eyes. 

“You …” he chokes and falters.

“You’re my favourite,” she whispers words that ghost through the booth.

He slowly reaches toward the streaked glass… then lowers his face into his hands.

Ding.

She doesn’t listen to the sobs as the curtain falls.