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It was a place known to all the island, but truly the theater was their hiding spot, an open secret of a place they would slip into on occasion.
As Antigone entered the dim theater, her quiet shadowy existence did not alert the ringmistress of her arrival. She found her already standing tall on the wooden stage, the spotlight trained on her. A crimson cape was tied loosely over her shoulders, a crown sat atop her head at a jaunty angle no different than if it were her top hat. She stood with one hand on her hip, the other leaning on a wooden toy sword.
“Aren’t you a bit too old to be playing dress up?”Antigone asked as she approached the stage.
Marlene was rather startled by Antigone’s sudden appearance, even though one would think she would be used to it by now. “Acting is pretending, is it not?” She countered.
“Oh, I suppose it is...” She took a step back, managing to catch the sword Marlene tossed to her.
“En garde, creepy girl!” She exclaimed, picking up another toy sword and pointing to her with it.
Antigone climbed onto the stage, she held the blade evenly, blocking and pushing away Marlene's playful slashes. With a rough slash back the wooden blade flew out of the ringmistress’s hands and the crown toppled from her head. When she knelt down to pick it up and rejoin the fight, she felt the wooden blade of Antigone's sword lift her chin up. Taking her hand, Marlene pulled it to her lips. She looked up at her with a sly grin.
"I knight thee," Antigone said as she gently placed the toy sword on each of Marlene's shoulders. "Lady Marlene of Piffling." She dropped the sword and placed the fallen crown atop Marlene's head.
The ringmistress stood up, pressing a proper greeting kiss to Antigone’s lips. “Did you never play pretend when you were growing up?”
“Father would have us play mortuary.” She thought about it for a moment and then shook her head, waving off that playing pretend was just a silly childhood sort of thing.
Marlene knelt in front of a large wooden trunk of costumes hidden behind the velvet curtain of the stage. Antigone joined her, picking up a plastic space helmet, its visor cracked in places.
"I used to wear one of these." Antigone said, placing it over her head.
"When you were younger?"
"No," Antigone said, lifting the visor. "I wore it when I was eighteen whenever I went outside. I only stopped a few years ago." With no further explanation, she took the helmet off and put it back in the trunk.
Marlene stared at her for a moment, longing in her eyes, she then turned back to rummaging around the trunk for another costume. Finding a green laurel wreath crown flecked with gold glitter, she placed it on Antigone’s head and called her a goddess. The Tyrant and Her Goddess, Antigone thought to herself, sounds like a story book...or perhaps a raunchy novel. Her cheeks grew a rosey pink at the thought and she snatched the wreath from her head and tossed it back into the trunk. she moved away, sitting at the edge of the stage, she stared out into the dark rows of seats. Marlene did not join her, but did pick up the abandoned laurel crown. She toyed with the leaves, the gold glitter staining her fingertips; she let her creepy girl be, wondering what was running through her mind.
Antigone wondered about the dead playwright from all those months ago, almost a year now she was certain. Marlene had called the playwright her friend, and for one biting moment she wondered if she had ever been her lover. There was no point in asking, it was evident enough in Marlene’s admiration for drama and theatre, and for her initial agreement in aiding in the playwright’s final wish. Part of her felt she ought to be grateful for everything that had happened, but part of her felt strange still. Her shoulders hunched, and the second they did, Marlene scrambled to the edge of the stage and sat next to her.
“Would you still be with Isabella if she hadn’t died?” She asked shakily.
Marlene shook her head. “We were never together, my creepy girl. I did not approve of her addiction and could not help her.” She looked up, unintentionally blinding herself with the spotlight. As she blinked back her vision, she could have sworn she had seen her old friend sitting in the audience. “There was no helping her.”
“She was attacked by a bear.” Antigone reminded her, looked at her, but Marlene was looking down, knocking her heels against the stage. “I’m sorry for asking.” She added.
The ringmistress said nothing more, merely let out a sigh. She took the cape and wrapped it around Antigone’s shoulders, who in turn leaned her head on her shoulder. Silence wrapped itself around them, calming their hearts and minds. Marlene turned her head and kissed Antigone’s hair, murmuring that she loved her. She knew it, and she loved her the same, even when anxiety loomed over her mercilessly, she knew.
The theater was a place where Antigone learned to be loud and Marlene learned to be quiet, a place only meant for them. The ringmistress boisterously expressed her love for Antigone, proclaiming it to the world through the words of Shakespeare, though most came from her own heart and were so beautifully dramatic they made playwrights rise from the dead and wonder why did I not think of that?
With the stage acting as a heavenly gateway for her to vent in whatever way she wanted to her sole audience member, the ringmistress; Antigone most of the time conveyed her own frustrations through her own words, but it was her particular rendition of Lady Macbeth’s “Out, damned spot!” monologue where she truly felt a cathartic quietness in her soul afterwards.
Her shoulders and face fell slack, she stared off into the theater seats, not to Marlene but beyond her. In her mind each seat was filled with a villager, finally they heard her, finally they understood her and finally they knew her.
Only the ringmistress was truly there, and that was enough for her.
Outside the theater a tree stood tall. If one were to approach it, one would be able to feel an intense love around it; and if one were to look to the trunk , there would be to see the initials M + A carved inside a jagged heart.