This is the opening scene of my novella, which takes place in the dressing room about thirty minutes before the play is due to begin.
“Did we ever work out what this play is about?” asked Topher.
“You’re asking me now?” Dale retorted with a mild sense of outrage that was mostly feigned. “It’s our last show!”
“Better late than never.”
“We’re going on in a minute.”
“In thirty minutes,” Topher quietly replied.
They were sitting in their corner of the men’s dressing room, each at his own table – at right angles and far too often at cross purposes. Dale leant in to shoot Topher a fiery look via the reflections in their mirrors. Not that Dale would let Topher rattle him, of course. The friendly repartee they shared was generally for real, and the less good-natured niggling was usually for display purposes only. Dale knew that Topher knew that for Dale the work came first, and if Topher went too far, Dale would simply shut him out.
Continue reading excerpt: A Night with the Knight of the Burning Pestle