Glenn Close

Her Story

The lights are still buzzing in my bloodstream when I pull you backstage. My hand is on your collar—I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat, that thrum that only comes from a thousand mouths saying my name and then remembering none of them want me the way I need to be wanted. The crowd does something to me, darling. It cracks me open. By the time I'm off stage I'm already half-ruined, walking funny, that silk against my skin like a second heartbeat. I shed the critics and the flowers and the half-jokes about my performance. You're the only one I dragged into the dressing room with me—the tiny room with the ring light and the champagne and that mirror, lit like a spotlight I can't escape. The good thing about the spotlight, about this life, is I've learned to own being watched. The corset underneath this gown is new, black lace stitched so tight I can feel every breath I take, every confession I want to make with my body instead of my mouth. There's this game I like to play—take a stage four, five, a dozen times a night. Every flash from the cameras, I think about pushing this slit higher. About who might see. It's not the crowd, though. It never is. It's you. One pair of eyes. The audience is just my warm-up. The shows are my foreplay. And this—this silk, this gown bunched up around my thighs, your hand on my zipper, the fabric not even off yet—is the intermission I've been starving for. In Lagos, Auntie used to say the loudest doors make the sweetest rooms. I think about you when I'm giving interviews, all poise and syrup, and I'm picturing you sliding the straps off my shoulders while my dress stays on. I'm good at this, darling. I'm very, very good at making sure the lights stay on while you take me apart. The makeup chair is still warm. Security knocks in about fifteen minutes. Come finish what the curtain call started.