The show was over. The stage lights had dimmed and the house lights had brightened. The theme music to Annie get your gun was still playing softly somewhere in the background. Patrons rose from the folding seats and shuffled their way toward the exits.

A young woman was there, a face in the crowd. She shifted around people, making slow progress toward the washrooms. The music still rang through her head, even in the too-bright, white tiled atmosphere of the restrooms. The play's best scenes replayed themselves in her mind as she waited for a stall in line.

By the time she had left the restrooms, the crowd had dispersed considerably. She begins to head toward the doors automaticly, before she realizes she doesn't want to leave. The woman turns, and before she knows what she is doing, she finds herself back in the almost-empty auditorium.

The stage was lit with a soft, warm glow. There was something poetic about the way the velvet curtains fell to the hardwood floor, and the rows upon rows of green seats, all folded onto themselves, patiently awaiting human rear-ends.

Marty sighs, as a restless, secret longing stirs deep within her bossom.

There's a guy still there, shifted against himself as the rest leave. Making way for them, still half in his chair, all black stubble and clothing and the dignity of a man secure in his place. Ronny has long cultivated the appearance of belonging wherever he may go, a supremely useful skill acquired through training and ego, easily passing as a theatre employee if anyone should care to think so. Fascinated eye on the girl coming through the restrooms - did she think she could stay 'till the next show, hidden between the seats, or had she been there all along? He wasn't much of one to notice these things, edging his way down an aisle and pasting on his Customer Service smile.

"Can I help you, Ma'am?"

The rest of the house had, at this point, emptied and a quick look to the lighting booth showed it apparently empty. He knocked up his posture and smile, careful not to edge into Car Salesman mode, body language open and friendly. It was an easy position to take, with the majority of the public so eager to see it.

Movement attracts the woman's eyes and she stands looking at the other a moment, before responding.

"Uh... no... I was just leaving." She did not doubt that he was one of the staff. An usher, most likely, though he didn't appear very professionally dressed. Marty's glittering green eyes trail back to the stage, before turning and starting to leave.

"All right, Ma'am."

He's a bastard. Really, he is. And at least he knows it.

Words, under his breath. Sounds like a bad haiku, maybe a dirty limerick, fingers twitching - it's easier than concentrating, he found, and it's really the thought that counts. Powers. Magic, maybe, and he swells up what he can. The gravity beneath her feet increasing in agonizing increments.

Ronny's studied this in school. He know it shouldn't work. Knows gravity is really just a theory, and figures that's the only explanation - it's the wrong theory, if he can manipulate it. Or there's something else there. Hey, maybe he's Jesus Christ? That'd be fun. More words and these ones don't seem to rhyme, more a plea and affirmation rolled into one. Rough translation of 'Please work, please work, you're going to work. Work.'

Ideally, the girl would be unable to walk. Right.. now. The weight so unbearable, like wearing cement-block shoes in a vat of molasses. But he knows he isn't concentrating, and the best he can hope for is a good trip-up. Because, really? He's a bastard.

Step, step, hesitant step because she hears words behind her, step, step...

She walks at a steady pace, lift foot bend knee move foot forward set foot down. When suddenly, she can't lift foot. It's as if an invisible force has suddenly decended down upon her. Pressing into her shoulders, her head, arms, legs, feet. She stumbles and comes crashing down onto her front. Her knees hurt and her hands hurt as she's kneeling there on the floor, on all fours, staring in shock at the soft maroon carpet that's not suppose to be that close. The woman had let out a little gasp of surprise as she fell.

She wondered if she had passed out, but disregarded this quickly, for she was completely clear-headed and obviously had not lost conciesness. What, then, had cause her to trip? And what was that strange sensation she had had, as if an invisible hand had pressed down upon her?

Facial contortion, cheekbones and eyebrows raising and lowering and resolving in a distracted, frantic look.

"Uh."

Too much force. Was it too much force? Did he add too much? His measurements were usually so.. precise, if not actually correct. She looked kind of dead. Maybe she would think she stepped on gum? Black-hole gum. Best kind around. No food inside the theatre, please.

"Would you, ah, like a hand?"

Halting speech and Ronny's edging towards her, around her, all around her in abrupt measuring movements. The tether in his head to the reaction outside snaps back like a fishing reel, effort shattered and the effect no longer upheld on his end. He watches her calculatingly, though does offer out a hand up.

She shifts onto her legs and onto her feets, rising to her full height, all the while saying, "No, no I'm fine... I'm fine..." Her brow creases and she stares calulatingly at the ground, before turning back to the other and realizing she's being watched. She forces a chuckle.

"Haha... Must've tripped on something.... probably my own feet... haha..." Her voice trails of into non-existance.

"Feet can do that."

He watches her ankles, feet, bones beneath the shoes as if to support this statement, or interrogate silent muscles into surrender of fact. 'I did it!,' they would cry. 'I tripped over him!,' and he would say 'He tripped over me!'. All would be resolved and there would be no gum stuck to shoes, or coppery taste of force in the back of Ronny's throat. But no one said anything and her shoes were quiet. And his sinuses stank of blood.

"You look a little tired. You should probably eat something."

'Eat something' doesn't come out friendly, or like an invitation to dinner. It sounds like a disaffected hamster owner discussing their pet's ingestion habits.