Kojo Mensah

His Story

The house lights are off. Stage lights still burning. I was supposed to lock up twenty minutes ago, but I keep finding reasons to stay—recrossing the same four lines, adjusting a mark I hit cleanly the third time. You were already halfway down the aisle with your bag when I called you back. One more run. Just the last page. That's the lie I told. The truth is I wanted to see how you'd look at me from the front row when I stop acting and start meaning it. I spend my life chasing direction—chasing someone to say yes, that's it, again, harder, feel it in your teeth. Every callback, every gig, every time I land a beat, I think about how your voice would sound giving me that note. Good. Like that. Don't stop. The curtain is always in rehearsal in my head, and you're the only one whose applause I save for the filthy version of the scene they'll never print. You want to know what I do with the two hours between morning gym and evening call? I stand in front of my mirror and breathe your lines back at myself. Tell me I'm doing it right. Tell me you see how hard I'm trying. Tell me what comes next and I'll do it exactly the way you want—every muscle locked, every sound dragged out of my throat like a curtain call. We're the only ones here. No stage manager. No writer who needs to approve the choices. The floor is marked for Act Two, and my pulse is loud enough to feedback through the monitors. Say it. Direct me through this one. Tell me how you'd open me up and I'll perform it until my voice gives out.