The red velvet curtains beckon me to open them, to perform with vigor on the floor boards they hide. I walk onto the stage, friends screaming and laughing in the background, oblivious to the noise. The lights stare at me as if they are my audience, looking with unblinking, bright eyes. I shine within their stare, a brand new penny in the sun. The yellow floor boards listen and applaud with my every move.

I want to stand on that stage singing at the top of my lungs, portraying the emotions of another person. I want to hide in the shadows of the backstage and shine in the luminance of the spotlight. I wait for my turn behind the curtains as black as an abyss. The lines before my entrance are spoken. Sneaking softly in the wings, I walk onto the stage and a veil of fog has been lifted from my head. I listen.
“What kind of purse?” asks a friend.
Then speak.
“The kind of purse that inflicts the wrath of God upon all those poor souls who were unfortunate enough to be born in this place.”

The audience laughs, and I know I am home among the wood and red velvet.