"I am so nervous," she thought. "Why am I doing this? What am I trying to prove?" As she watched the other performers from offstage, her stomach continued to flip—she had terrible stage fright, always had. She'd been teaching musical theatre for years, and although she knew she could perform—she hadn't. And this was why—all she wanted was to run into the dressing rooms and hide in the bathroom. She continued to watch as her stomach flipped again and again; each round of applause brought her closer to her doom.
"I can't," she realized, and dashed for the side stage door. As she crossed into the hallway, she slammed into Bryan, the stage manager. As always, he flashed his crooked smile and said, "Where are you off to in such a hurry, you're on in about fifteen minutes." Usually, she took the time to flirt with him—smile, laugh, touch his arm—but now her only thought was flight. "Bryan, look I'm sorry—I should have never done this—I haven't performed in years, and my stage fright is just too bad! I'm going to go out there and look like a fool! Skip me! I'm not doing it!" She burst into tears, and she fell into his arms. As upset as she was, she couldn't help but notice how strong and warm his arms felt around her, and how warm his breath felt on her neck. She could also smell his cologne, and she caught herself thinking about how he must stand naked in the morning, anointing himself with it. Bryan led her back into the theatre and far off stage into a very dark corner—only a faint sound of the stage could be heard. He sat her down on a chair, and then sat down behind her and began to rub her shoulders.
"Calm down," he said, as his fingers worked into her neck and shoulders, "you have a beautiful voice. No one on that stage can sing better than you."
