First Posted:

Soon enough it's just me and a bored custodian in the cavernous auditorium. I look down at the stage from the back row, taking in the meticulous stagecraft engineered mainly by Laurel Fleming--stage manager, costume designer, director, carpenter, gaffer, dialogue coach...and my twin sister. She's settled for nothing less than perfection, as usual, to bring the vision of the artist to life. It's the first time, however, that she's done it for me. If the rest of the show's run goes as well as tonight, it won't be the last.

Ah, nepotism. Laurel broke into the theatre first, being the practical one, the agressive one, the one who knew how to work people. While I slaved over the word processor, churning out hackwork that eventually grew into something more, she was making herself indispensable to the Vancouver arts community...and that was how, by the time I'd finished "The Metronome", she had enough clout to force a prominent producer to read the play.

The handbills scattered on the floor and left on the seats are proof that he liked it well enough. "Will Fleming's The Metronome". In black and white...and on the marquee outside...and in the papers.

I actually whistle a little as I trump down the aisle, towards the stage. The custodian gives me a blank, disinterested stare for a moment and then returns to his work, collecting those handbills with my name on them and throwing them into a plastic recycling bin. Well, you can't please all the critics.

A moment later and I'm on the stage, in Rachel's living room, standing on the spot where she gives the Inspector the fateful letter. Two steps carry me to the piano and the titular metronome on top of it.

The custodian has vanished. I look out into the glare of the spotlights, across the rows of empty seats, my left hand reaching out to idly flick the arm of the metronome, setting it to work, back and forth, click-click-click-click-click-click-...

* * *

The party is a blast. I have a little too much to drink and I get a little cocky, a little arrogant. Laurel leaves early, giving me a dirty look before she goes. Well, the hell with her. This is my night.

A striking beauty cuts through the crowd, a woman in her early thirties with long black hair and pale skin. She's voluptuous, alive, wild-looking. Arousal flares up through the alchohol, and when she says "My name is Anja. I enjoyed your play," I reply, "I'm Will. Do you have a place?"

We walk out, arm in arm, into the night. There are numerous glares and sniffs behind me. If Laurel were here, she would tell me what a stupid thing it is to walk out of a party being held in my honour. Try telling a man's privates what's stupid and what's not.

* * *

In bed, she's everything that I'd hoped for. She's a tigress, a wild thing, all claws and teeth and hot skin and wetness, she's hard in the right places and soft where she should be, and I give myself over to this stranger because tonight I'm King of Earth, invulnerable, immortal, forever young, forever brilliant, forever unstoppable.

And then her fangs sink into my throat and she makes it all true, and on that faraway stage, the metronome winds down with a final

click

click

click