Word count: 812 | Completed: Yes | Style: Depressing

Dairyman felt the hot theatre lights reaching for his skin, heard the rough roar of applause from the dim void before him. His hand curled more tightly around the familiar cylinder of the microphone, its solid shape comforting him. Though half blinded by the bright spotlight trained on his slender form, he could make out some features of the rapturous audience before him. When the applause finally died he put on his smile and began to recount the time that costar McDuggen had trussed his bicycle to the soundstage roof. He studied the first few rows of upturned faces – mainly middle-aged women who blushed and glanced away when he looked right at them, with a smattering of obviously uncomfortable husbands. When his tired anecdote rolled to its inevitably soggy close, their eyes lit up with such amusement he almost took a step back.

It always puzzled him why, though these people would have known the bicycle story backwards, they still cheered and laughed and applauded when he told it. One day, Dairyman promised himself, one day I’ll stop saying the same old things and actually think of something new. But not today, that would be too hard. And so Dairyman widened his smile and began to talk about the man who had tried to steal his portable camera. More rapturous silence, more wide-eyed women sitting on the edges of their seats, eyes so full of hope and admiration. Another round of wholehearted applause, so loud Dairyman felt the floor rumble.

He was suddenly overtaken by an urge to do something different, to show these people that he was human too, that he wasn’t just a broken record… But his time was up. He waved cheerily at the mass of admirers, turned and strolled into the wings. As he walked down the dingy corridor to his borrowed shoebox of a dressing room, he could still hear their ovation.

Later that evening, Dairyman heard a timid knock on his door. After sighing and putting down the newspaper he was pretending to read, he stood up and opened the door. At first he thought there was noone there, but then looked down slightly and realized that his guest was below his eyeline. This wasn’t uncommon, he was a very tall man, but his guest was rather short. She looked up at him and beamed.

Dairyman recognized her from several of his book signings. She never seemed to change out of that dark brown trench coat, it was unmissable. He couldn’t for the life of him remember her name, and felt a sudden pang of guilt. He thought again of how, earlier that evening, he had longed to stop repeating himself and say something that really mattered. With a start he released he had left her standing there, and stepped back to allow her to enter the dressing room. Sedately she shuffled past him, bright green eyes avidly surveying the mess of crumpled newspaper clippings and half drunk coffees that littered the desk and floor.

“May I?” she asked, pointing to a chair that had the suit Dairyman had worn earlier crumpled over the back.
“Oh, um…” Dairyman lunged forward and plucked the suit, embarrassedly shoving it into the already overfull cupboard by the dressing table. He had no idea why this woman was here, or indeed how she had got backstage without a pass, but he felt suddenly conscious that she could see what a mess his dressing room was. Hurriedly he darted about the small room, piling the newspaper clippings onto the table and collecting the coffee cups under his arm. Mutely she watched him, smiling to herself as he cleaned.
“Sorry about the state of this place,” Dairyman apologized.
“I’ll just take these to the mess, I’ll be back in a minute.” He gathered all the coffee cups in his left arm and scurried down the corridor.

“My name Mr. Dairyman, is Glenda. And I’m very sorry about your loss.” Dairyman cringed as she reverentially set down the pile of newspaper reports about missing persons.
“We still have hope,” Dairyman murmured, choking on his words.
“she still might be out there.”
“It’s been five years. I don’t think she’s coming home.” Glenda stood and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. Dairyman felt all of his safeguards fall away, felt the emptiness inside him reach out and fill the room. He realized he was sobbing into her shoulder, pressing his face into that soft grey hair.
She waited until his sobs died before standing and gently steering Dairyman into the chair.
“Well,” she said, offering her hand,
“It is a great honor to finally meet you.”
Dairyman weakly shook her hand. With that she pushed through the door and toddled back down the narrow backstage corridor, leaving in her wake a changed man. Tomorrow, Dairyman thought, I’ll tell them exactly what I think.

< -Back to Stories

Original ideas etc. are MINE, but unoriginal things are used for fun and not for profit and belong to various people.