“Mature,” she’d muttered to herself, loading cans of cat food into her cart. “A polite word for ‘ancient.’”
“You haven’t done this in a while, have you?” he asked. matureauditions
That was her. She walked into the cavernous, dark auditorium, the single stage light a blazing sun. The judging table was a shadowy outline in the front row. “Mature,” she’d muttered to herself, loading cans of
Yet here she was, clutching a worn copy of the play, her knuckles white. The hallway was lined with them: the mature auditioners. A silver-haired man in a cardigan ran lines under his breath, his fingers trembling slightly. A woman with a chic grey bob and a velvet scarf sat perfectly still, her eyes closed, lips moving silently. Another woman, larger and louder, was recounting her triumph as Martha in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? ten years ago, her voice a little too bright. She walked into the cavernous, dark auditorium, the
The reedy voice belonged to a young man with horn-rimmed glasses. He looked stunned. Next to him, a woman in a blazer was scribbling furiously. The third judge, an older man with kind eyes, leaned forward.
“Thank you, Ms. Vance. That was… unexpected.”