The Still Air Between Drops

The flies were a cage of steel pipes and hanging trusses, smelling of hot dust and old varnish. It was forty feet up, dark except for the work lamps that buzzed like angry wasps, and the air was still, heavy with the weight of the scenery suspended above the stage. Delphine sat on the narrow catwalk, her boots hooked over the edge, checking the drop line for the overture. She was loud even when she wasn’t speaking, a presence that took up the space between the beams, her voice booming down to the pit below to confirm the cue.

Kit was on the adjacent ladder, four feet away, tightening a rigging bolt with a wrench that clicked in a steady, precise rhythm. He had been there for five months, eight shows a week, a man who moved with an economy of motion that annoyed her because it made her own energy feel excessive. He ignored her commentary with practiced ease, his attention fixed on the metal, his hands scarred and capable, working the bolt until it sat flush. They were stagehands in a West End musical, trapped in the vertical architecture of a production that demanded perfection, and they were currently, at a late-night rehearsal of the new finale, arguing about its timing. It was a technical disagreement, but Delphine had decided it was a war, because she needed him to respect her ear, and he needed her to stop talking. The distance between them was small, but the silence he kept was wide.