Seven Seconds

Seven Seconds

When the audience began laughing, Mara counted to three and switched off the stage lights. In the darkness below her booth, Leo was still kneeling beside his open suitcase. His final line, the one they had rehearsed for weeks, never came.

The instruction in Mara's folder was clear: lights out three seconds after the suitcase touches the floor. During rehearsals, Leo had always delivered the line within that time. Nobody had expected the sight of his carefully packed collection of identical slippers to produce such a long laugh.

After the performance, Mara waited beside the lighting desk. She had joined the college production because she liked work that could be checked: cable labels, numbered switches, instructions in a folder. Downstairs, people were congratulating the actors.

The director climbed into the booth and asked what had happened. Mara showed her the instruction.

'You followed it,' the director said. She looked towards the empty stage. 'We lost the line, though.'

Mara couldn't tell whether this was criticism or simply a description. She began explaining that Leo had paused, but stopped when he appeared at the bottom of the ladder.

'I could hear them laughing,' he said. 'I thought I had time to wait.'

For the next performance, they agreed that Mara would watch him rather than count. Once the laughter ended, he would speak; she would fade the lights when he closed the suitcase.

That evening, the laugh lasted seven seconds. Through the booth window, Mara saw Leo shift his weight and almost begin. She kept her hand beside the switch. He waited, spoke, and closed the lid.

Afterwards, she wrote seven beside the old instruction. Then she rubbed it out. In the margin, she drew a small suitcase with its lid open. She left room underneath for another note.