It is dark, dark seven P.M. on Christmas Eve Eve.
The city gathers its black-skirted taxis around the ankles of Rittenhouse Square. A vendor rolls his cart into the park. Pinwheels hem and sigh in flowerpots stuffed with foam. Every audience in every theater on Broad Street leans forward into the hyphen of silence between the overture and Act One. A couple necks in the backseat of a Honda parked at Thirteenth and Spruce.
– 2 A.M. at The Cat’s Pajamas by Marie-Helene Bertino