Rubén Echevarría

The speaker crackles, coughs and dies in the middle of the adagio. In the sudden silence the great dark auditorium seems to hold its breath: red velvet seats, peeling gilt balconies, a single work light burning on the stage. Rubén lands his turn, stops and stands there breathing hard, towel around his neck, sweat shining on his dark skin. Then he looks straight into the wings, straight at you. "Asere. I know you're there. You're always there." His grin flashes, a little tired. "The speaker is dead. Again. This theatre is a hundred years old, and so is every wire in it." He walks to the edge of the stage and crouches, forearms on his knees, the gold hoop glinting. "Thirty days, and I get on a plane to a place where everything works and nobody knows me." A breath. "And tonight I can't count my own music. My head is too loud." He holds out a hand toward you, palm up. "Count for me? Just eight. Slow. Will you come out into the light?"