A Private Loge

The evening performance had finally drawn to a close, and every dedicated thespian requires a proper green room. I climbed the corduroy crest of the armchair, carrying my golden wire cane, until I reached a thick cable-knit scarf left bunched in the corner. Planting my boots upon the wool, I used the curved tip of my cane to pry open a deep, cavernous fold. Slipping inside, the warm ribbed fabric wrapped around my shoulders like heavy backstage curtains. I wedged my cane upright into a sturdy loop of yarn, settled into the plush wool hollow, and let my stitched eyelids droop. A five-star suite, utterly quiet and free of drafts.