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There are ghosts here, Geoffrey thinks.
Not Oliver—thank god—not at the moment, anyway. No, these are the same ghosts that are always here, that reside in every space Geoffrey has ever worked in. Specters of audience and actor pressing in around him in the darkness. Breathing.
They have always comforted Geoffrey.
He pushes back in his seat, somewhere amidst the scattered center of the house, and he shuts his eyes. He can feel the rows and aisles radiating outward around him, can feel the stage sitting naked and potential below him, and everything is darkened and quiet. Waiting.
Geoffrey breathes in time with the ghosts.
The theatre is about communalism, sharing, giving and taking and receiving, a dialogue between actor and audience. The effort expended in this endeavour—the constant creation and destruction; the building of sets and props and costumes and the rehearsing of actors, over and over in the tightrope fear and hope of creating a moment between themselves and the audience, a timeless moment in which physics are suspended and reality is whatever they will—all this work and emotion, and Geoffrey is never surprised that every theatre is haunted by ghosts, specters of audience and actor pressing in all around the house and stage.
Geoffrey likes the house during this time, likes to sit and look at the barren stage, naked and potential. He likes how the quiet cocoons and embraces him, wraps itself like a comfort blanket around him. There is no Oliver here tonight to pester and question, and the other ghosts that live here are much quieter and far more--tactful.
Geoffrey breathes in time with the ghosts.
He's fallen asleep more than once in houses like this—in this house, for that matter, on more occasions than he can probably remember, and that is because in these moments, in the dark, in the quiet, this space is safe for him.
It's rare that he ever feels safe.
"The guest of honor shouldn't ditch his own party," Ellen says, slipping into the seat behind him the way her voice slips over his body, inviting rather than grating. "It's impolite. What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're working," she adds, and he can feel the burn of her glare on the back of his neck.
"I'm not," he assures. "I'm pretending to be a child again."
"Oh," she says, and pauses. "I suppose there are worse ways to react to growing a year older. I had sex with a prepubescent boy on my last birthday."
"So you did," Geoffrey says, "and then you probably kicked him out before sunrise because his feet were cold."
"Something like that," and Ellen doesn't sound very interested in the conversation anymore. "Come back to the party, Geoffrey, before Richard starts trying to sing or something. Please?"
"Yes, I'll come," Geoffrey sighs. He closes his eyes and presses back further in his seat. "Give me a moment, won't you?"
He can feel Ellen considering him, and then she presses a kiss to his upturned forehead before slipping out of the house as silently as she had slipped in.
The quiet presses back in around him, as soothing as before, and Geoffrey breathes.
"If we shadows have offended," he says aloud suddenly, his words ringing in the silence, "think but this, and all is mended."
He stands up, slides into the aisle. "That you have but slumber'd here, while these visions did appear." He continues the soliloquy as he strides down the steps and leaps lightly onto the stage. "And this weak and idle theme, no more yielding than a dream." He turns to smile at the nonexistent audience. "Gentles, do not reprehend; if you pardon, we will mend."
He walks the stage, up and down, left, right, and center. "And, as I am an honest Puck, if we have unearned luck now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, we will make amends ere long. Else the Puck a liar call, and so good night unto you all."
He stops, dead front and center, and looks out upon the empty house. "If we shadows have offended," he whispers again and pauses. "Give me your hands if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends."
Geoffrey stops, and listens as the silence of the darkened, empty theatre breathes around him.
He thinks he might have heard a single pair of hands clapping, but Oliver is nowhere to be seen, and Ellen has long since gone back to the party.
"And so good night unto you all," Geoffrey says, and bows extravagantly.
***