Thursday, November 14, 2019

The dance center is almost full tonight. I think an announcer said that the performance was sold out, but I'm not sure. It's the first of three evenings of a festival of premieres. I don't know any of the artists. I'm in the second row of the balcony, on the end. I like having an escape route. The row in front of me is full of teenage girls, possibly dance students. The first five in the row are all wearing cropped tops, shorts, and knitted sweaters, in a riot of colors. Several brought bouquets of flowers and don't know where to put them during the show. I hope they don't mean to throw them onto the stage. We're pretty far back, and they would just hurt someone in the audience below. Another teenager down the row from me asks me something. I have trouble hearing and understanding her. After several repetitions, I catch "Can I see your" and see that she's pointing at my program. Certainly. And now I know the word for "program," though I may forget it by morning.