Barrymore, the director, lights a small candle in a round glass and moves to the center, under the tree. The grass colored rug that covers the acting area is plush and cool beneath his bare feet. He turns slowly, listening, looking. " Here will I pitch my tent tonight, but tomorrow where? Ah well, all's one for that", he intones dramatically.
He stands very still, as if absorbed in a memory. He can hear the actress in the lobby; she is locking the theater door.
He climbs into the control booth moving gingerly, careful not to disturb the multitude of sound and lighting equipment scattered everywhere; or perhaps wary of the ghosts of old technicians. He touches a switch, then moves a handle - in the room, the tree is bathed in soft light; a warm fantasy of blue highlights and pink shadows. He looks down on the tree from the control booth window. The light is drawn in around the trunk like a fairy ring. From here the unpainted tops of the plywood construction mars the illusion. "Illusions are for an audience", he thinks.
The actress steps into the light. She looks up at him and smiles her bemusement. Barrymore wonders if she thinks him strange, perhaps even silly. With a smile he presses the power button of the tape recorder, then adjusts the volume and starts the tape. Birds sing, cicadas rasp, and a slight wind rustles.
He wonders what they would look like to an audience. He has often imagined this scene as he watched the actress during performances. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barks; it almost sounds like part of the soundtrack. He can feel the nylon grass crinkle beneath his bare back and the gelatinous moonlight seems to grow brighter. She sighs a small pain as her shoulder brushes against a sharp edge of the plywood tree.
They play moment to moment, they project, they improvised, they conflict, and eventually they resolve - catharsis. Lying on his back he wonders if she too can hear gentle applause.
Looking up at the painted leaves, he wishes they would shudder in the imaginary wind, but they do not. The tape runs out and the birds stopped singing. The emptiness of a museum returns. He notices the wires above supporting the branches glowing faintly like dingy blue neon strings.
The actress runs a finger down the line of soft hair on his belly. " To hold the mirror up to nature", she whispers.