I glance back at Jack, right at my shoulder. I wonder what he’s thinking about, standing here, and maybe he takes my look as an invitation, because he leans over just a little bit, and with his voice pitched low, says, “It feels very daunting to me. All these seats, all filled up, watching you perform.”

“I love it,” I say. “It feels powerful.” He’s very quiet, and I keep talking, my words picking up speed. “The nerves, and the—the anticipation, and the excitement. The audience is this anonymous, expectant presence out there, waiting, and all of that together is in your chest. And then you are onstage and everything stops and—” I stop. A breath.

“And?” he says softly.

I look out at the seats, thinking about that.

“And,” I say. “And every time there’s that perfect moment, where I feel my body and the music almost—click. Click into place. Every time, just for a tiny, tiny second, it’s a surprise.” I sigh. I can’t think of how to describe it. “And whoosh,” I say. I cut my hand through the air. I want to say how big and beautiful it is, but I can’t find the words.

“Is it ever too nerve-racking?” he asks.

“Never,” I say.

But somewhere downstairs, we’ll find a place where the four of us can throw a wild show for a different kind of audience. Who will I be when they’re right there, so close? When I can see their faces looking at me? Burlesque is supposed to be a give-and-take, an invitation and acceptance of their admiration, and that’s the part that still feels so daunting.

“Anyway,” I say lightly. “Detour. I just wanted to see what the stage looks like with all the lights out.”

“Bigger?” he asks.

“Darker,” I say, and hear him laugh a little.

We shuffle back along the corridor to the stairwell and descend two flights to the loading area, through the heavy doors and into the storage-room corridor, lit by security lights. The long-term storage area runs the length of the building. It’s the place where they store scenery once it’s been retired for a season. The rooms and nooks are well-insulated to protect the bulky stuff in storage—which means quiet enough to muffle music and maybe applause, enough room for a small audience. I’ve been here before with other dancers—hunting for backdrops to use in our showcases, looking for props, grabbing a tiara to prance around in between takes until the prop master plucks it off your head to pack away again. Broken-down set pieces are stored here, construction materials, huge bolts of fabric for the costume department, and in the last room, through the wide doors all the way at the end, the backdrops that don’t fit anywhere else. No one ever comes here. Mostly it’s where old props come to peacefully retire.