Virtually all of us are in low gear. The next three nights seem like a chore, and the consensus keyword is "mellow." We're all mellow. Once we get in front of the audience, we're fine. It's a good crowd -- almost 90 -- and, like most first audiences of the week, they are primed for a good show. They're so jazzed that they respond to things in the first scene that previous audiences let slide by.
They're chuckling and enjoying themselves, and everything goes fine until the wife sits on the couch. It's then that she skips ahead in the script. It's only for a few lines, but it's enough to rattle her. She manages to improves later when we get to that line again, but it knocks her out of her groove for the rest of her night. I don't mind; it helps me make the scene tense with our arguments. But we lose the crowd. You can feel it when something odd happens onstage. The barometer changes. We don't get the crowd back until the second act, in the third scene that's becoming a comedy bit between the odd couple of the murderer and the husband.
We're planning on getting the director whiskey as a production gift, and a quick call to his wife before we take the stage gives us the brand he prefers. I'll try to pick it up today before the night's show, and we'll give it to him at the cast party tomorrow.
The show goes fine, but it feels much longer tonight. I ran my lines during my commute; at high speed, I can spout them all within 45 minutes. Any audience member who doesn't like the show Friday night has the courtesy not to say so as they leave. Two shows to go.