“So, what you’re saying is, the voices are telling you to kill,” said the ice cream salesman.
“No, I’m saying that light fitting is dangerous. It’s been creaking throughout the first act, and there’s plaster dust coming down! I’m an architect, I know-”
“I couldn’t care less. Ma’am, the show will recommence in five minutes. If you’re not buying an icecream, I recommend you return to your seat,” he told the wild-eyed woman, and put his earphones back in, buzzy thrice-compressed screamo drawling out into the foyer of the theatre.
Catherine glared at the youth, brushed nonexistent dust off her lily-white shoulder and flounced away. What a curse it was, to be beautiful and smart! Everyone who looked at her saw an airhead, and ignored her. She twirled a golden ring round and round her fingers, darting glances between the gilded sign reading “Dress Circle” and the few faces who still lingered, not