Darkness is essential; a techie will immediately melt if exposed to the white-hot stage lights. No one is watching; it is our nature to be forever unseen. A maglite shines but only faintly and illuminating no one. In perfect stilless, the circle of six rises to its silent music.

Graceful are unseen gestures, a unique movement defined only by the imagination. A dark body passes through my arms right on cue, and I raise her to the heavens as if in worship of the ellipsoidals then softly return her to the newly swept floor. The dance is more spectacular than the visible action onstage, but its very purpose is secrecy.

Someone--an intruder--quietly enters the wing; the sharp techies are all busy, focusing on an upcoming cue. There is no trace of the celebration that passed in that very place only moments before. No one will ever witness the dance of the techies.

The curtain's down.

The lights are off.

We all tiptoe silently, escaping to our secret pastime, creating only a whisper of movement behind the scrim. Each of our hearts beats wildly with anticipation for the ritual about to be danced, but beyond that, there is no sound.

We assume our positions, and at once fall into perfect harmony. This time we have a single red tango rose, which we passionately pass from one black-clad techie to the next. The music in our heads plays faster and more loudly, yet the stage hears only silence. All of us unite and move as one with the darkness.

Suddenly I'm flying high into the black, being lifted by one set of arms, and then another, and another still. The rush is tremendous, yet when I am replaced again on the stage I am glad to feel the welcoming wood beneath my boots.

Places are called all too soon, and we promptly assume our situations for the show, without a hint of our aborted clandestine rendezvous.

And at last the dance of the techies begins.

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