The Art of Performance

Preston loved performing. Just like Bacchus, he was a performer in heart, soul, and body alike. His little catte paws were always itching to feel the wood of a stage underneath them, and his fur felt most well-kept when it was adorned with a nice outfit and styled to fit a character.

All of that was exactly why Preston was positively unhappy to be stuck delivering tea. He wondered why he couldn’t be like Bacchus, who claimed to be getting ready for a performance at the party. Naturally, without any parts in the script, Preston was asked to help Cossette’s mother. It was nothing against her at all, really! Preston simply wasn’t built to be the best busboy around. Instead, he was floundering around like a fool, struggling to balance tea on his head as he walked to the other tables. Sometimes, it felt like all of his grace was gone the moment his paws left the stage. He went from museum-worthy painting to a child’s drawing plastered on the fridge. But the number one rule of theatre stayed in his mind.

The show must go on!

That meant no slowing down, no excuses, and most importantly no quitting! Preston would just have to push through this thing and get his job done. After all, he only had one cup of tea left to deliver! A simple order, and much easier to carry than most of the other plates that held tea and cookies (which he had to constantly resist munching on…)

This simple order, however, did not make the journey simple. Preston had to get his little catte self all the way across the hall to the farthest table, all without spilling a drop. If he stood on the counter, he could almost see the lovely lady that he was supposed to deliver the tea to. A cossetling named Whitlea, according to the note attached to the tea. Preston glanced down at the ground, eyes looking for a path between the hooves and paws that covered the tile floors. When all of a sudden… 

He found it.

If Preston were to go underneath a few tables, make a few sharp twists and turns, and then carefully run, he would be able to make it all the way to the back of the hall, without the chance of getting bumped into! All it needed was some good timing.

Timing… Timing…

Bacchus had said something about that before. Something about how in theatre, pace and timing were some of your greatest tools. That a well timed line could make the greatest impact on an audience.

 Preston grinned, carefully nudging the saucer with the teacup until it sat on his head, precariously balancing. He walked down a ramp that Cossette’s mother had kindly set up for him, careful to keep a slow pace. That was what he needed here. 

But his pacing changed once his paws hit the floor. Preston’s eyes flicked from side to side, watching the other cosprouts and cossettlings walk across the floor. Once he saw a gap, his pacing changed yet again. He moved with haste, quickly making his way underneath the first table, where he was able to rest for a moment and wait for the next opportunity. 

Thus began a game of waiting. Preston would watch, wait for an opportunity, and then make a dash to the next table, where he would repeat the process once more. In a way, it was akin to a dance. By the time he made it to the final stretch, Preston had everything timed, down to the second. He could hear the eight counts in his head, as his paws moved with purpose. 

He was a knight delivering a message to the neighboring kingdom. A forest creature rushing to the lake for water. A lamba running through the pastures and playing a game of hide and seek with their friends. Preston was all of those roles, and he was eager to ensure nothing stopped him. He was going to commit to the role and give the audience the show that they had come to see!

With a deep breath, Preston rushed forward, determined to reach his goal, which was right in sight. He could see Whitlea. He could feel the teacup. He could smell the scent of all the lovely pastries in the hall. It was just like the thrill of lights shining on him, and the wooden stage beneath his paws.

Preston slowed to a stop, and proudly sat by Whitlea’s hooves, head held high. Her hand reached down and took the cup. Preston eagerly watched as her eyes lit up at the taste.

“A mighty fine cup, if I do say so myself. Thanks!” Whitlea chuckled, giving Preston an approving pat on the head.

That was better than any applause he’d received so far.