The Comic

He's done it a thousand times before, but tonight it shows. He pulls the microphone from the stand and leans full weight on it. This man does not look well. Ever the professional he bangs out the lines, his eyes flicking across the audience, calibrating his material to the faces. Setup, setup, setup, it's all in the setup. He holds the pause, timing everything, runs his tongue over his lips, casts a glance to one side, lifts an eyebrow and delivers the blow. They love it, they fall out, he savours the moment. His breath is heavy, he's wheezing, his sweat is glistening on his forehead. Clearly he is uncomfortable. But, and know this, there is nowhere he'd rather be. That much is obvious. Under the lights is where he shines, where he finds his meaning, the laughter of the darkened faces, the call of the curtained places, the stage makes him weightless. Far too long has he done this to remember its pretence, for too many years has he occupied the deceit. Offstage is a dim world to him, he can barely remember the time he spends between these spotlit moments, and fuck the life of the dull and the ordinary, he thinks. But later that night, as he falls from his chair in his first floor flat, as he spills a tv dinner on his worn brown carpet, as he finds himself clutching his chest whilst staring at a pile of ten year old tv listings, he thinks, I never really got it. Whatever it was, I never really got it.