The ghost light glows steadily on the empty stage. Once, just once, it flickers, as if someone has breathed across the filament.
Out, out, brief candle.
The week they sign the lease, Geoffrey and Ellen fuck in every room in the newly minted Theatre sans Argent.
"We had to," Ellen insists, shrugging back into her shirt. It's a dusty, echoing space and there's a chill in the air. "It would be bad luck if we didn't."
Geoffrey smears her lipstick off his mouth with the back of his hand. "There are times that I am deeply grateful that actors are superstitious people."
"Actors!" Ellen says, slipping her arms around her waist. "Don't say it like you're not one of us."
"Now and again," Geoffrey says, gazing down at her. "Hopefully no one will lay about my actors with any more broken bottles, but I suppose life is unpredictable."
"Thank God," says Ellen with passionate relief, and Geoffrey chuckles and leans down to kiss her.
One breath turns into two, turns into three, turns into a knowing synchronicity of breath and pulse and lips and hands, and, well, it isn't as if they can't use a little extra luck.
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