By Cohen Rowland
I walk into a room. There are three people and the one with me. We speak out of turn, sing, and then I get to go home.
I walk into the same room. There are 100 people. I take a script and sit down. Then I can leave.
I walk into another room. There are 80 people and a tall man. I take my script and stay standing. Then I can leave.
I walk into the same room. Someone isn’t here and they should be. My script is here and it shouldn’t be. I know that and so does everyone else so we start to sing. We stand in place and the tall man sits and we surround him like he is a radiator. Then I leave.
I walk into the first room and we’re taken to a third, with glass bottles without spirit. We leave remembering lefts and rights and sit as an audience knowing a bit of the performance and we listen to the rest and what all of it will be.
People run past me through rooms. They might divide the changing rooms. Then I run back to do the same, leaving the stage. Then I leave the changing rooms, tidy.
We leave again, still talking and thinking and returning the next day. In two days, we leave for Christmas.