It had been another spectacular, completely flawless performance. Esme's turns at the end of Jet Set had been executed beautifully, and the applause had been nerve-tickling. Another exhilarating night for the cast of "Catch Me If You Can," with only two more performances for the run. This particular night, Esme was the last dancer in the dressing rooms, previously occupied with assisting the maintenance of a torn curtain towards backstage after curtain call. Slipping into his sweats and scrubbing off the layer of makeup on his face, he snatched up his duffle bag, locked up the dressing room, and made his way out the stage doors. The city was still alive, of course. Even at 11pm the neon lights of other theaters and bars and still-thriving restaurants speckled the sky, the stars beyond them completely dissolved. Small herd of night crawlers remained bustling along the warmly lit sidewalks, a rumbling of slightly intoxicated conversations cutting through the chilly, rusty air. Upon rounding the corner to the front of the theatre, however, one man stood out among the others. He was rather large, his shoulders easily almost as big as Esme's entire wingspan, and he sat completely alone against a small marquis. As the dancer approached, the man's size was even more prevalent, and while he normally would not approach a stranger at all, his sad looking clothes and even sadder expression compelled him along with his possessiveness over the theatre itself. "'Scuse me sir," he said. "I'm sorry, but the theatre's closed."
