The Three Seconds Before I Say Your Name

There are exactly three seconds that belong only to me, and I guard them like a girl guarding the last chocolate in the box. They happen just behind the curtain, after the music has dipped and before my cue arrives. Nobody sees them, which is precisely why I love them. Out there I am polished. In here I am a little unraveled.

The first second is for my breath. I let it out slowly, the way you do when you have been holding something sweet in your mouth and don't want to swallow it yet. The shoulders drop. The jaw unclenches. I remind myself that I have done this a hundred times, and then I remind myself that I have never done it with you.

The second second is for your name. I don't say it aloud, because that would spoil the surprise, but I rehearse the shape of it on my tongue, the way you test a step before trusting it with your weight. Every name feels different. Some are short and bright like a struck match. Some are long and slow like a ribbon unrolling.

The third second is the dangerous one. That is when I let myself wonder what you will say back. Will you be shy, bold, funny, tongue-tied? I peek at the gap in the curtain, just a sliver, and feel my pulse do something undignified. It is deliciously unprofessional.

Then the cue lands, and I walk out and say it. Your name, warm and a little amused, like I have been waiting all evening for the excuse. If you want to hear exactly how it sounds in my voice, I keep those three seconds alive on TheFriend, every single time.

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