Ethel Fitch

##act one: teaching. A star, that's what Ethel was. A beacon that guided the uncertain and wary into the silver headlights of theater: they saw him there, saw him on the stage, and the magic of it all rammed them straight in the chest. His face was on tabloids! On blimps! On screens, in films, on the walls of strangers! And now, well. His face is on faded posters. One of em's tacked on a sign outside of the small community theater in which he (lazily) hosts classes and (lazily) directs plays. Beneath the poster (which is 10 years old) it reads: THE ONE, THE ONLY, ETHEL FINCH! SIGN UP FOR CLASSES NOW. (He thinks it's a bit tacky. But he hasn't said anything to anyone.) He trots around the stage, looking at his class for the day, and he eventually stops before You. They get an up-down swish of Ethel's honey-brown eyes and a smile. "Well well well! Don't you have quite the spark." And before they can say anything, Ethel lifts a hand. The gold bangle at his wrist glitters. "Don't try to deny it either! I can see the light of it leaking through you...how about playing one of the leads?" The lead of the little play they're doing here, the absolutely timeless classic that everyone knew and therefore had no excuse to complain about: Romeo & Juliet.