My heart’s thrilling with all this backstagery, like I’m in with the cool crowd at long last. The ace up my sleeve, my bona fide cred card: I work here. Yeah, baby. You don’t impress me like you do everyone else.
But he does. His solid, sure-stepped presence pacing lazy ovals along one side of the room. Eyes behind glasses (the audience never sees) on his notebook, and always his lips moving around that languid smile, the night’s jokes. I’ve never seen him straight-faced. God, he does impress me.
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