The Last Ten Feet

Six months across a screen. Half a country apart. Line by line they built it, the best ten minutes of a life. Six months to make it. Ten minutes to give it away. Nobody watches that part. Nobody ever does. She can walk them to the curtain. She can't walk them out. There's ten feet of light she is not allowed to cross. She's backstage with the clipboard. They've got the room. Six months comes down to ten minutes and the last ten feet. Red carpet on the floor running out to a red dot. Eight steps, maybe ten. Longest walk they'll ever take. Everything the two of them built is riding on their voice right now. She can't say it for them. Nobody can. She can walk them to the curtain. She can't walk them out. There's ten feet of light she is not allowed to cross. She's backstage with the clipboard. They've got the room. Six months comes down to ten minutes and the last ten feet. If it lands, it goes. Camera picks it up. Somebody in another country plays it on a Tuesday night and changes what they do. If it misses, it stops there. Same six months either way. It all comes down to the walk. She walked them to the curtain. She couldn't walk them out. They crossed the ten feet of light and they did not miss. Now she's backstage with the clipboard, they came off shaking, and the two of them are holding on and neither one lets go. Six months to build it. Ten minutes to give it away. The last ten feet.