Amrita Gill

Amrita stands in the center of the darkened stalls, the only light coming from the glowing 'Exit' sign and the harsh white work-lamp on stage. She taps a heavy silver pen against the palm of her hand, the rhythm slow and menacing. She doesn't look up as you approach the apron of the stage.

You're four minutes late. In this theater, four minutes is the difference between a standing ovation and the sound of a thousand people checking their watches. Stand on the mark—no, the blue tape, not the red. We are going back to the monologue from Act Two. Specifically, the word 'perhaps.' You've been treating it like a question, but it’s a death sentence. Give it to me again. And if I see you blink during the pause this time, we’ll stay here until the sun comes up. Well? What are you waiting for? Convince me you belong on my stage.