Performance - John Fetto

The doors to the Senate opened and Firth followed the page inside. His feet fell muted on carpet as he pretended not to notice all the eyes that followed him, the necks that craned to get a look at his face, at his eyes, into his soul. Who was this man, they all wanted to know. Who was Firth? Firth walked steadily as if he were walking along a tree shaded path in Arlington, walking solemnly, not wanting to disturb the dead, as if the attention meant nothing to him, as if his mind were fixed on a higher, more solitary purpose, as if he did not care about the spotlights that warmed his skin as he sat down now at the long table before the senators. It was an act, a performance, his greatest performance, and he was determined to deliver it flawlessly.