A Night At The Theater

Sometimes serendipity is a person on the street.
Sometimes kismet is not taking the route you tend to take.
Andie and I were walking/trudging mid-January.
Salt-sleeked and chattering, we were making our way home.
Moving along Argyle and passing all those sexy hotspots, we reached an intersection.
I was going to say, "Let's turn up here," before deciding against it because the incline looked unforgiving.
Instead, we continued on, to encounter perfumed people mingling outside of The Neptune.
It was opening night for some play or other. We stood in the huddle, pockets turned out, and discussed trying to blend in long enough to eat some free snacks.
"Maybe we could sneak in," she said.
I didn't have the heart to tell her that those ticket tearers were pros who did little else, but figured I'd just usher us on instead.
Then some woman asked if we were going to the show.
"Excellent question," I said.
She had tickets she wasn't using waiting at the box office.
Give her name if we wanted them.
We weren't dressed for the theater.
The play was quite good. 
The actual plot was fine, but the actors were great, and the set was really neat.
It had buddy from Trailer Park Boys in it, and he was a real scene stealer. He was solid.
Gin and mingling at intermission.
I'd never wanted a shirt with something scrawled on it so badly.
Patrons wearing that piece of jewelry from a forgotten anniversary set aside for occasions.
Gowns. Well, not gowns, but nice dresses.
Tortoise-rimmed glasses.
Everyone standing around having discussions instead of conversations.
I watched this and wished I was wearing a t-shirt with the words HEAD WOUND
on it.
We saw Contessa, this out-of-costume drag queen I met at a party months before.
I pointed him out.
He and his date.
"Oh! His date's a man!" Andie murmured. "5 o' clock shadow!"
It was definitely a man, yes. The dress was real enough, but the wig wasn't fooling this duck.
After the curtain, they were offering refreshments and wee sandwiches upstairs.
We single-filed with the procession of show goers, their overcoats casually slung over their arms.
Andie and I did as we do in a catered situation:
We started filling our pockets and boots.
That's a joke.
We probably did take our fair share, though, given the circumstances for our being there.
I kept trying to take a photo of her, but she was embarrassed by how much food she'd taken.
"But we're at the theater!" I wanted to capture the occasion.
Eventually, we caught sight of the generous soul and hairdo who provided our unlikely entry.
Holding napkins topped with salmon and perfectly-square bread, we gushed a thank you at her.
Disheveled and overly appreciative, we told her we loved the show and so on.
The whole time she was likely thinking, "Oh good. They looked as though they could use a meal."

Giving is a powerful thing.