A dark purple curtain cloaked the stage. The half-naked dancers waved fervently until they were no longer in sight. The audience applauded loudly; however, despite the occasional ``Bravo!'' there was no curtain call. The ovation evaporated, the audience dispersed collecting their belongings, and headed for the aisles. He uncrossed his legs and stood up. During the five-minute applause, he did not clap once. He merely looked up in silence at the dancers' eager, thirsty eyes and lips with his arms folded. Although he felt the same compassion and respect for the dancers' labors as the other members of the audience, he did not want his applause to give credit to the choreographer.
As he made his way out of the auditorium and across the hall, he took down the now outdated poster of the performance he just watched. When he had first discovered the poster in a downtown bookstore, he had shivered. Worried that he might miss the final performance, he had hurriedly made ticket reservations. In the poster, male and female dancers sat naked in a haphazard pattern. Crimson flowers with their stems and luxuriant foliages were painted down their backs from the nape of their necks down to their behinds. Standing in front of the poster, he had felt sacred, excited and overwhelmed all at once. He could not believe that the image which haunted him, the image that no one else seemed to understand, would be choreographed. Could it be possible that image he dreamed about would be spread out before him that night? He had been so nervous that he was unable to take even a sip of water until the lights had dimmed and the performance began.
The performance, however, did not measure up to his expectations. He headed out of the hall toward the subway entrance, avoiding the crowd of flamboyant dancers. He could not find what he was looking for in the electronic music, whirling costumes, bold nakedness and suggestive gyrations that had filled the auditorium just a few minutes ago. He was looking for something quieter, more private, more sensual and more profound.
It was a Sunday afternoon, and the subway was empty. He stood by the subway doors holding the program with the poster image printed on it. His wife was at home with their four-year-old son. He knew his wife had been hoping they spend some time together over the weekend yet he had dedicated half the day to the performance. And had it been worth it? If so, he had been able once again to taste mediocrity thus confirm that only he can produce his image. But could a stranger really pull his dreams out of his head? He had felt the same disappointment when he had watched a similar piece by a Japanese artist. In the video, men and women, bodies dappled with paint, lusted after each other's bodies, writhing in sync with the psychedelic music. Like thirsty fish out of water, they flapped about relentlessly. Of course, he empathized with that thirst. However, he did not want his image to be depicted in that manner. Certainly not.
At some point, he passed his subway stop home. He never had any intention of getting off. He stuffed the program into his backpack. He punched his fists into his jacket pockets and gazed at his reflection in the subway window. Now used to it, he did not mind looking at this middle-aged man that he accepted as himself with a receding hairline under a baseball cap and a protruding belly hidden under a jacket.