Page 125 of The Failed Audition

I’m drooling at the sight of the stage: my eyes wide in awe and a fool-hearted smile spread across my cheeks. I look like a little kid about to witness a Christmas miracle. “I’d say delete it, but I know you won’t.”

He grins like I’m correct. “Nikolai will love it.”

That fact swells my heart. I twiddle my fingers, nervous for the show to begin, for Nikolai. And he’s done this so many times before.

Ten minutes later, the seats fill a little more than half up, which should be decent for a weeknight, but I knowThe Masquerade feels differently. The lights dim, shrouding the audience into blackness. The violins echo, beautiful and haunting music. And then red silk descends from the cavernous ceiling.

Soon Nikolai emerges, arms spread out, the silk wrapped around each wrist, head hanging. His sculpted, chiseled body is the sole object of everyone’s gaze. He lifts his build, using the power in his biceps and broad shoulders. His legs straight, he strikes masculine poses that show off his strength and agility. Men like Nikolai were the muses of Renaissance sculptors—their strong figures carved in marble and stone.

My heart slows, waiting to stop all together.

He’s…There are no perfect words for what I feel. For what I see. It’s staring at a Michelangelo painting and being intimate with the subject beneath the brush strokes. It’s falling to your knees and looking up at a god, who belongs to you.

Another flash goes off. This time, too apparent in the dark auditorium.

“Luka,” I hiss, squinting my eyes. Nikolai is still descending towards the stage, a commanding, quiet intro.

“I had to capture love,” he refutes.

Uh…

Security leans over our row, just one man in an Amour T-shirt, plastic badge tethered on a lanyard. “No pictures.”

Luka whispers back, “Sorry, dude.” He makes a gesture like he’s putting his phone away, but when security disappears, he leaves it on his thigh with a bigger, satisfied smile. What a rebel.

I redirect my attention, just as Nikolai’s soles hit the bottom of the stage, cloaked by fog. In the very center, he breathes deeply, like he’s witnessing whatwejust saw. Like he’s the one being overcome.

The hairs rise on my arms.

He scans the audience, pulling us all in individually. It’s what he does at The Red Death—it’s how he captivates and turns one head from the next.

His purple and silver paint across his eyes darken the romantic look of his red pants. It’s here—as he steps forward, alone—that I begin to realize the importance of Nikolai Kotova to Amour. He’s going to guide the audience through each act.

The storyteller.

The person that bridges every type of love together.

As his eyes flit around the audience, he says, “Do you know love?” The pain in his gaze palpitates my heart, and somehow, he finds me in the crowd.

He fixes his line of sight in my direction. Whether or not he can see me clearly, I can’t know for certain. But this one look from him, while he’s working, on stage—it solidifies me to the chair.

“I believe there aremany, many kinds of love.” His eyes seem to smile at me. Knowing I’m unraveling at this intimacy. “And I have seen them all.”

I find myself touching my lips, feeling the force of his on mine, from memory.

And then he steps back, once and twice, the fog thinning around him. He wraps a single hand in the silk. “Tonight,” he says lowly, “you will know love. Just as I do.” And he rises in the air, the apparatus lifted by riggers, giving the illusion that he’s cast away.

When he vanishes, acrobats suddenly scale rafters,smoothand nimble. Other dancers perform sensual choreography as a transition between the major acts. Everyone is dressed in modern attire: pants, shirts, and…lingerie. Not as risqué as Phantom, more like delicate babydoll tops with spandex shorts.

As the show continues, I replay Nikolai’s intro in my head. Even when he appears on stage again, assisting trapeze, I stillhear his deep voice. I still see him staring straight into me. With that soul-bearing gaze.

After many minutes pass, Luka leans into my shoulder. “This is where the aerial silk act goes.” It’s supposed to be the halfway-point, the highlight before intermission.

We’ve already seen trapeze (teasing) and hand-to-hand (gentle). I flip through the program, trying to see what’s left if aerial silk (passion) is out. Next up: Chinese poles (destructive), teeterboard (obsessive), and the conclusion is the Russian swing (friendship).

As we move onto the poles, it feels like the swelter of the story is missing. But maybe that’s just me, knowing this act should’ve been here.

When we reach Timo’s act, I realize that he’s the climax of Amour.

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