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The Tape on the Floor
Amina stood in the wing and held the sides of her dress in both fists. She had a line tonight, and her father was somewhere past the lights. He had come straight from work to hear it. She wanted him to know the words had stayed with her.
All week she had said the line in the kitchen, in the stairwell, under her breath on the bus. The words were plain, and on the stage they had to sound like a decision, not like homework. Her father knew that difference. He used to lift a hand when she rushed.
Dee, the stage manager, tapped a strip of tape on the floor.
"That is your mark," she said. "Last night you turned toward the seats, and the line came late. Tonight you face the door. Do not look for him."