Dramarama

He smiles, the taste of Colgate fresh in his mouth, and all is right in the world. Her reaction is normal, returning the favour perfectly with straight white teeth. They walk next to each other in the twilight. In thirty-seven minutes exactly, it will be dark and they’ll sit cote-a-cote on blue crushed velvet seats as a mediocre badly-adapted drama plays out before them. He booked the tickets a week ago on a friend’s recommendation. Theatre isn’t his thing, but she said once that she liked it, and he filed the thought away, just in case.

“Have you been to the Old Vic before?”
“No, I haven’t – though I’ve always wanted to…”
“Oh, you’re gonna love it. I’ve seen loads of stuff here. Kevin Spacey is the artistic director.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, did you hear about The Philadelphia Story – it was a bit of a flop in the end, all the reviews slated it. You must have heard about it?”

Drat. His ignorance is poking straight through the chest of his Ted Baker shirt, and she she’ll be faced with the naked truth that when he said he liked plays, what he actually meant was he saw Puss in Boots once when he was nine, and he’s only trying to get the girl.