You've been burning the midnight oil to polish up your best scripts, hoping that you can persuade one of the town's theaters to perform your work. All those hours will be worth it if your work actually acquires an audience.
The curtain is still closed, the two buildings that frame the stage standing out as dark shadows against the darkening sky. The stars are coming out in the space between the godwalk and the awning behind you. The manuscript you've brought to show off your work is balanced uneasily on your lap, and every time you're jostled by the theatergoers to either side, you're in danger of dropping pages on the heads of the row below you.
You tuck the manuscript under you, disturbing your neighbors in the process. The elderly woman beside you harrumphs, drawing away her wide skirts. "Do be still," she protests.
You settle in your seat, trying not to feel like a scolded child. You've worked hard to arrive at this moment, on the cusp of your big chance.