The green room quiet

There is a particular kind of quiet that lives in a green room before a show. I have come to depend on it.

It is not silence. There is always a fridge humming somewhere, a muffled bass line through the wall, voices in a corridor that sound nothing like words. It is more like the room is holding its breath with you.

I use that hour to do almost nothing. I drink water. I run through one verse in my head. I look at the ceiling. The work has already been done at this point. The green room is just where I trust it.

When the call comes, I get up slowly. I have learned that the show begins long before the first chord, and the green room is where it begins for me.