Act Three

Heartbreak is a play in three acts. Act one features the protagonist standing in disbelief under a single, blue spotlight. It follows him back and forth across the stage as he delivers an expertly timed monologue consisting only of “but” and “why.” As the lights dim and the curtains close, he moans audibly. As the second act begins, the protagonist is lying on the floor stage left, one arm drooping down over the stage and knocking against a cellist’s sheet music as he sobs pathetically. Act two varies in length depending on who is putting on the production, but it rarely lasts more than a few weeks before giving the audience a much-deserved intermission.

Once the patrons have quieted from hasty discussions of what was and what is to be fueled by expensive drinks and a much-needed bathroom break, the curtains draw back once again, this time the protagonist stands on a well-lit stage that looks much like an empty stage. He stands with his hands in his pockets looking around for his props, cues and friends. After much ogling, he finds none of them. He is confused—not scared or worried, but just confused—but he knows that “the show must go on.”

I want to apologize if Art ushered forth any feelings of bitterness or anger toward Ashley. I did not intend to lead anyone to believe that she was unjustly “letting me go.” The truth is, we’ve been officially “over” for the past two months, but it wasn’t until last weekend when we really got to talking about things. Finally, the blue-tinted spotlight of school faded out and I could only mutter, “Fuck.”

I sped through act two, only pausing long enough to deliver my digital monologue about my plight, my injustice, my thoughts and feelings, and hurried on an intermission before the heroine of my little melodrama could deliver her lines. The past weekend was all about me, and I’d’ve been damned if anyone else was going to steal my spotlight or crash my pity party. (I’d’ve—that’s one hell of an amazing contraction. Feel free to use whenever.) It wasn’t until last night that I realized: “It wasn’t my pity party. It was our relationship.”

I regret now that I couldn’t have spent more time lamenting my plight, because now that the audience has returned, I can’t get that feeling of despair. It would be ridiculous to go back and re-play act two—this is a live show—no matter how much I want to. “The show must go on.” So here I am, my hands in my pockets, looking offstage for some shred of cue, but getting none, I can’t help but look pitifully at the throng staring down at me, expecting me to do something—anything! I exceed their expectations as I remember the amazing nights and days spent rehearsing this coy bit of amateur theatre, smile shyly, and exit, stage right.