You are asked at the last minute to work backstage once again for a production you worked on in July.
July – when there were motorbike rides and short nights and lots of giggles.
And as you stand backstage, listening to the music that used to echo through your brain after every show, as he sped down the hill with your arms clinging to his winter jacket, your smiles synchronised as you hummed the same tune, and told the tiny Grahamstown of your greatness –
The performer on stilts asks you, “”So how’s your man?”
And you look way up at this glorious figure, shining with talent and mascara and metal poles, and you say, from all your 1,55m of height,
“Oh, he dumped me.”