Onstage

She watches me mouth the words to myself. Closing my eyes, I close myself in a different world, trying to remember what to say, but the words remain stuck on the page. With a sigh, I flip open the script in front of me, searching for them. Her voice interrupts.
"You know, you look crazy. Like you're talking to yourself."
I laugh, shaking my head. Out loud now, I read the words, gently coaxing them off paper. She's clearly not amused, glancing around to see if any one's staring. Two people are, as entranced with my mutterings as she had been. I hadn't noticed. Her own words jest, but her tone turns authoritative, a mix of begging and reprimand.
"We're not exactly 'onstage'..." she says gently, trying not to offend. I shake my head yet again.

"All the world's a stage," I whisper," and all the men and women merely players..."