By late summer I was back in Minneapolis, back in my studio, back inside a life that hadn’t paused while I was gone. Italy was still in my body — the light, the patience, the way time could stretch instead of compress — but the city didn’t know that, and neither did my calendar. Artpaper was waiting. The season was starting. The familiar gravity of obligation settled back in as if I’d never left.

The set for The Balcony had taken over the space. Rope everywhere. Thick coils of it, tactile and purposeful. Tires hung like strange furniture — places to lean, to hover. The set didn’t describe a place so much as establish conditions. And then there was the confessional. That one was mine. A place to kneel. A place to rest your arms. A structure that assumed someone would come forward and speak. I built it thinking only about the body — how it would feel to lower yourself, to be held there, exposed without being seen.

Dress rehearsal night arrived and refused to end. The play had already been run. By ten o’clock no one wanted to go home. Wine appeared — casually, inevitably. People drifted back onto the stage. Someone moved the confessional to the center, and as if by miracle it was suddenly perfectly lit. It no longer looked improvised. It looked ordained.

We were seated facing the stage when the music arrived — not from in front of us, but from behind. An electric keyboard set up low behind the theatre seats, opposite the action. An upright bass joined in. The sound pressed us forward, wrapped around the room, changed how everything felt.

Leslie sat beside me. Close enough to feel intentional. She leaned forward, urging people on, laughing, coaxing. As the booze flowed, the confessions sharpened. These were theatre people — well-lived lives, or well-constructed ones. Some confessions landed as truth. Others were clearly performance. Most hovered somewhere in between. Desire, betrayal, ambition, cruelty, tenderness — everything spilled out, and no one tried to sort it.

Laughter moved through the space, then silence, then laughter again. The confessional worked not because it was symbolic, but because it required submission. You had to kneel. You had to lean in. You had to commit.

Time loosened. It was late. Very late. By three, no one was sober — including me. The music, the lighting, the wine, the confessions braided together into something that felt less like a party than a threshold.

She leaned over and asked if I would take her home.

There was no ambiguity in the invitation. No hesitation.

I said yes.