As We Are

The stage was empty save for an open window in the middle of the back wall, a large standing mirror on one side, and a blank canvas on a tripod on the other. “The Japanese have ‘noh theater’ and now, we have ‘no theater’” the critics wrote. “A play with no cast? Is this a joke? Our advice: Just stay at home, and stare at your own bedroom wall. It’s not any less entertaining, and it’s for free.” But, people continued to buy tickets to this avant-garde play at The Lighthouse - one of the oldest theaters in town.

 

Isaiah had not heard about the play before he wondered into The Lighthouse by chance one rainy evening after his fiancé cancelled their dinner plans. He bought his ticket, found his seat, and waited for the show to begin. “Why did she cancel? Is she really feeling sick?” His brow glistened with nervous sweat. His heels were tapping on the floor at an incredible speed. He had a lump in his throat, and had to loosen his tie and take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm his nerves.

 

The open window on stage was designed to show an actual street in real time. “Great quality screen,” Isaiah thought observing the people coming and going, the cars, taxis, and trucks going by. The hustle and bustle distracted him, and it soothed his nerves. He avoided looking into the mirror, though. It was unsettling to see himself, or to catch other people’s eyes looking at him, studying him as if he was a character on stage. The blank canvas bothered him. He couldn’t avoid looking at it, and it was a smooth, vertical granite wall his mind was trying in vain to scale. It was exceedingly frustrating.

 

The white curtain hanging over the window swayed, as if it was dancing with a gentle breeze blowing in from the street bellow. Just then, Isaiah’s heart skipped a beat; his eyes opened wide, and his body shot forward so fast he nearly fell out of his seat: he saw Moira, his fiancé, on the screen. It was her! Her walk, the red tinge of her long hair, and her long, white coat! The lights on stage dimmed, the mirror turned black, and the canvas oozed thick, red paint spreading from the center, soaking the pure white surface. Isaiah’s feet were tapping on the thick carpeted floor with the muted sound of a distant drum, but all he could hear was deafening thumping sound of his own frantic heartbeat filling his ears. He held his breath, his body was stiff, frozen, every muscle taut, tight.

 

Moira stopped in front of a café. She looked at her watch, opened her purse, retrieved her phone, and made a call. The curtain on stage flapped like the large, frantic wings of a bird shot dead, careening, falling helplessly toward the ground. Isaiah’s eyes were wild, and his palm sweaty. Isaiah could see the green of her eyes, the bright red of her slightly parted lips. She ended the call, put her phone back in her purse, removed a small mirror from her purse, and checked her hair. A man stepped to her and covered her eyes from behind. She turned around, they embraced and kissed. Isaiah was on the edge of his seat. He didn’t know whether to jump up and storm out of the theater, or to keep watching. “I knew it! I knew it!” He was fuming, breathing fast; his ears were buzzing with the blood rushing to his head. His knuckles turned white from gripping the arms of his seat. The man was now kissing the back of Moira’s neck. Isaiah wanted to rush to the window, scream, throw himself at the man, and tear him to pieces with his bare hands.

 

Moira turned around, and laughed throwing her head back. Then, the two of them embraced, and started a slow dance right there under the yellow light of the street lamp. Some passers-by clapped, others smiled, pointing at them, cheering them on. A girl selling roses stooped to look at them. The man with Moira waved to the girl and bought the whole bunch of roses. Moira laughed and kissed the man on the lips. Isaiah moaned audibly.

 

He couldn’t watch anymore, and averted his eyes. He caught sight of himself in the mirror that was like the dark surface of a deep lake. He could hardly recognize himself. The face he saw was grotesque like that of a snarling beast. Suddenly, he felt a surge of shame and embarrassment. His eyes darted left and right to see whether people were looking at him. Then, it occurred to him that no one would know the true meaning of the drama that just unfolded on stage. No one from the audience was looking at him. Some smiled, some giggled, others looked solemn, and Isaiah heard someone sniffle, and blow their nose. 

 

Isaiah turned his eyes to look up at the stage, to look out the open window again. He wished the window closed, but it was like a gaping hole in his chest, a tunnel borne to the core of his soul. There was no sign of Moira or the man anymore.  The curtain was swaying innocently as if being tickled by a playful breeze, the canvas was blank again, and the yellow light of the streetlamps twinkled peacefully. Isaiah relaxed his grip on the armrests of his seat; he took another look around the theater and at all the people looking out at the world through the open window.

 

Did they see Moira? The roses? The dance? The kiss? Even if they did, why should they care? Why did they sit through this bizarre little act? What were they looking at? What did they see looking out that window? What did their mind paint on the blank canvas? What face did they see in the mirror? Leaving the theater, Isaiah caught snippets of conversations about the traffic accident, the fire in the apartment above the Chinese restaurant, and the knife fight outside the café. He did not see any of these events. He took another look at the stage from under the Exit sign. The street view was not visible anymore. The screen was black with the following words written across it in bright, blinking neon light letters: We don’t see things as they are; we see them as we are.