by R.S. Bohn
He dribbles a Moravian red on the boards, an old gesture for luck, he tells her.
Tonight they open, she and her benefactor, a man whose name she can never remember. He has yellow teeth and dyed black hair. Her play is about young lovers, tragedy, and rivers that flow the wrong way. She wrote it, and now she stands on stage, imagining the house in a few hours, if the seats are filled.
"Don't worry, they will be," he whispers.
His kiss on her neck is dry, unexpected, and he's gone.
And so is the wine on the boards.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Stages is part of 101 Fiction issue 2.