The invitation came out of nowhere: instead of the usual office party, management booked us all seats at a classy theater downtown. Dress code? Formal. Plus-ones were welcome, and I took my girlfriend, not expecting much beyond polite applause and stale wine.
But the real performance that night wasn’t on stage.
Midway through the second act, I noticed something odd. Two rows ahead sat a coworker, holding hands with his wife. But just one row back — and a few seats over — sat another woman. She didn’t glance at him. He never looked her way. But something about the stillness in her posture screamed tension. My girlfriend leaned over and whispered, “They’re pretending not to know each other.” Sure enough, we realized we were watching a quiet tragedy unfold — a man juggling a lie and a mistress, both of whom were in the same room. And he was acting like this was perfectly normal.
It made me think about all the ways people perform — not just on stage, but in life. The wife, calm and gracious. The mistress, holding back a storm just to catch a glimpse of something that looked like love. And him, the lead in a private drama that deserved no audience.
Later, over drinks, nobody talked about the play. But we all remembered the other act — the one unfolding just a few seats away.
