September 1917

Manuela moved across the stage like she did in life; with instinct and the utmost sincerity. Contrary to the other comedians surrounding her, she did not act. On stage, she simply was, and it was enough. Elisabeth revelled in thinking, perhaps a bit possessively, that no one else could tell but herself. Oftentimes, she would sneak into the dimly lit auditorium, sometimes even without Manuela knowing, and sit through countless rehearsals, preferably in the back row where she knew she would not be drawing any sort of attention. Then, she would get to watch, enthralled, as her young wife would give life to characters with such passion that it was at times overwhelming. Elisabeth twitched and sighed, cried and chuckled alongside Manuela, forever swayed by how true, how raw every line rang when delivered by the younger woman, and how much of her own emotions she poured into the words. Manuela was magnetic, fascinating and Elisabeth, as much as just about anyone who saw her act, only had eyes for her.

This evening, she had left work earlier than expected and had walked straight to the small theatre, her briefcase full of students' essays tucked under her arm. From her usual spot, she noticed that the atmosphere onstage seemed to suddenly shift and frowned when Manuela threw her hands up in the air and turned to a man sitting in the front row. Elisabeth could only see the back of his balding head, but it was unmistakably the company's art director, Mr Jensen –a fellow German immigrant who had given a young, fresh off the boat Manuela her first chance as an understudy. Considering where she was at now, he certainly patted himself on the back every day for having taken a chance on her.

"I cannot do this any longer," Manuela said, pointing at her acting partner who, in turn, was eyeing her with quite a bit of apprehension. "He is not ready -I'm sorry Ivan, you're not. The premiere is in three days. How can you even think it will be anything but a mess?"

Elisabeth felt her chest swell with pride and braced herself for what would surely come next. Manuela did not seriously consider leaving the role behind –or her fellow comedians-, but seeing her stake her claim so intensely was always a delight, albeit a guilty one.

"Manuela, please…" she heard Mr Jensen say, and was surprised to see him stand up and walk to the stage.

Elisabeth watched intently as Manuela jumped from the scene, and leant forward as she got to the man's level, listening to whatever he was whispering with limited interest.

"I am giving him a chance. I'm not saying I am absolutely flawless; I certainly am not. But he can't even remember two lines in a row. How am I supposed to work with this, really?" she asked, opening her arms and letting them fall exaggeratingly -comically really- at her sides to make her point.

"Listen… I'll talk to him. He is young. It's his first big role…" the man said, scratching his head in dismay in search of a proper explanation for the young comedian's lack of talent.

Elisabeth pursed her lips, unconvinced. Ivan had joined the company a few months prior, much to Manuela's utter dismay.

"I have nothing against him, but he is way too young! He's unfit for this career," Manuela had complained after meeting him for the first time.

"How young, exactly?" Elisabeth had enquired with an amused tilt of her head.

"I don't know. Maybe 19 or 20, can you imagine?"

"Appalling," the older woman had gasped exaggeratingly, which had earned her a glare from a visibly unamused Manuela.

"He's an incompetent. Did you know that his family name is Chekhov? So I told him 'Well, what are the odds?' –just to make small talk, you see. He just looked at me blankly, and I could tell from the look on his face that he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about!"

"Manuela… Not having heard of Chekhov does not necessarily make someone an idiot. Give him a chance, he might surprise you," Elisabeth had chastised softly.

The young comedian had huffed, but had not argued further, willing to concede that time would, indeed, tell whether or not the first impression was always right. As it turned out, it had been all too accurate.

"I know what you're going to tell me already. But I can't act opposite him in these circumstances. It would be an insult to the company and to you, Gerhardt," she said, pointing a finger at the man's chest. "Not to mention, an insult to myself."

Elisabeth felt her lips stretch into an involuntarily grin at her wife's repartee. Manuela was only 21, but it seemed that her ease and her understanding of life were going beyond her young years, making her appear like a figure of authority and wisdom next to most people twice her age.

"Go home. Relax, have a good night's sleep. I'll talk to him," the short man assured again, more urgently this time. "I can guarantee that he'll have improved by tomorrow. All right?"

"You always say that," she said, shaking her head with a tired smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

Without another word, Manuela proceeded to walk up the narrow passage separating the rows. When she reached Elisabeth's level, she gave an absentminded nod and resumed walking, before it dawned on her just who she had greeted, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, rushing to take the woman's hand and sitting next to her in the still obscure room.

"I decided to stop by and wait for you after work… What an exit, by the way," she nodded at the stage where Manuela's colleague were hustling and bustling quite laughably.

Manuela chuckled, a bit uncomfortable.

"It's not always this way…"

"I found it very entertaining," the older woman assured. "Poor Ivan does not seem to have improved much, has he?"

"Oddly enough, he seems to be getting worse with each passing day. If only he stopped asking about you… I might be a bit more lenient. He sends his regards by the way," Manuela said, her tone slightly more biting than necessary.

"Well that's… nice of him, I suppose."

"Hmm," the younger woman pursed her lips and remained silent for a moment as she let her eyes wander over the other comedians onstage, and particularly Ivan, who decidedly seemed to be the cause of many troubles lately.

"He's in love with you, you know," Manuela finally let out which earned her a loud, inelegant and flat out uncharacteristic snort from Elisabeth.

"What are you on about?"

"He is! He is smitten, I see how his eyes light up whenever you are around!" she all but whined.

"That's a bit rich, coming from someone with countless suitors, wouldn't you say?"

It was not unheard of that many of Manuela's colleagues were quite taken with the young actress and that her admirers only grew with the representations. Elisabeth understood, of course and she usually laughed it off. Manuela had this type of undefinable charisma that moved people to the core from the first time they laid eyes on her. And it only intensified when she took the stage. Manuela, of course, despised the idea, she who viscerally hated to be praised for her looks and usually did not know how to take a compliment.

"People should mind their own business. They should know you are mine," she sighed, turning to really look at Elisabeth for the first time tonight. Her bun was slightly less tight than it had been in the morning before she had left for work and there was colour in her cheeks, either from the warmth of the room, or from something else, entirely.

"They know it. And if they don't, we'll notify them," Elisabeth assured, her smile ever soothing, ever reassuring. "Let's hurry back home, shall we? Are you hungry?"

Manuela's lips stretched into a lazy smile and she leant slightly forward, letting her nose and lips brush against the long, slender neck in an almost kiss.

"Starving," she murmured and savoured the feeling of the vibrating shiver coursing through Elisabeth's body.

"Well then… let's go."