Flynn reread the script for a fifth time, then thoughtfully scratched out a word with his pencil.  Then he left the dressing room and went onstage in search of the director of his new play.

The director, a man named Buchanan, found him first.  “I’ve thought about it, Flynn.  Ruminating in the Rain isn’t a very good title.  You’ve got to change the verb.”

“I know, I realized.”  Flynn tucked the pencil behind his ear.  “Any new auditions?”

“No,” sighed Buchanan.  “You know, Flynn, you can’t keep on picking and choosing on lead actresses.”

“None of them are perfect.”

“Yes, but we’re going to have to cast one of them eventually.  How about that Debbie girl, her audition wasn’t half bad.”

“We can afford to wait a little longer.  How about Reminiscing in the Rain?”

“People are gonna have trouble pronouncing that.  I’m meeting the costume people in a second, you want to come?”

Flynn ambled after him, brainstorming for new verbs in the corner of his script.  Buchanan was talking to a severe-looking woman in black holding a roll of cream chiffon under her arm.  “…and this is our scriptwriter, Flynn Wickershaw.”

“Oh, I know Mr. Wickershaw,” answered the woman in a decidedly familiar tone of amusement.  “I’m a huge fan.”

Flynn looked up.  Thessalia Thimble crooked a corner of her mouth at him.

“Oh,” said Flynn.  “Hi, Tess.”

“You’ve met?” interjected Buchanan, puzzled.

“Most definitely,” said Thessalia, still smiling.  Then she leaned back and called through the doorway, “Hurry up, Cassandra my dear, there’s something here you should take a look at.”

And then Flynn’s heart seemed to stop, because Cassandra was walking in through the door half-buried under an armful of cloth and saying, in that meltingly lilting voice of hers, “I’m sorry, Tess, but I dropped the black silk and you know how hard it is to get the dust off the oh my dear god it is you.”

“You’ve met?” repeated Buchanan, dumbfounded.  No-one answered his question.

“Her,” said Flynn in a strangled voice.  “Cast her.”

“What? Without an audition?  But that’s – “

“Cast,” repeated Flynn without taking his eyes off Cassandra, “this girl.”

“I’ll take those, dear,” said Thessalia briskly, relieving Cassandra of her burden, not that the latter noticed.  “Come, Mr. Buchanan, there’s a lot we need to talk about.  This way.”

The sound of the door shutting behind them echoed in the long silence that followed after.

“Where the hell have you been?” spoke Flynn throatily, after a long time.

“Oh,” replied Cassandra, picking at her nails, “around.  I tried going back to vaudeville, but all the old revue halls are closing down.  And then one day I walked past a café and Tess was just sitting there, and she said that she was going to try her luck at theatre and did I want to come?  So here I am.”

“So here you are,” agreed Flynn.

The room was treated to a solo staccato of fingernail-picking.

Eventually Flynn said, “I think this is the part where I’m supposed to sing my grand solo piece declaring my love for you, but I can’t bloody sing.”

“It’s okay,” said Cassandra softly, “neither can I.”

“I thought you were in vaudeville.”

“I was.  I just do dancing and acting.  I can juggle too, but I don’t very often.”

“You can juggle?”

“Yes, Flynn, I can juggle.  I can also see that we’re going off tangent here.”

“Yes,” said Flynn.  “We are.”

And then the room was treated to a solo staccato of no words at all.

Some time later, the silence was broken for the last time.

“Singing. That’s it.  Singing.“

“What?”

“The title of your play.  I’ve found the perfect one.”

A quiet laugh.  Another little light on Broadway.

The End