Marcelle is attractive.
Marcelle is a football player.
Marcelle is cliché.
Marcelle is a wolf in sheep clothing.
Marcelle is a Christmas fanatic.
Marcelle is just downright annoying.
Matthew Griffin is a certified theatre geek/video game nerd. And...
❝Oh, Christmas isn't just a day, it's a frame of mind and that's what's been changing. That's why I'm glad I'm here, maybe I can do something about it.❞
Kris Kringle
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Matthew is an omen of tranquility.
He's not nervous, not even now that he's late for an audition. Usually he'd be going batshit crazy by now, climbing down throats and considering a new steering wheel cover [he has the tendency to forget to clip his nails].
Harvey said sixteen hundred—open auditions. It's seventeen hundred.
He sat in the heart of Miami traffic for twenty minutes, prior to where he was stuck between if he should audition or not. [He changed his mind on the very last second when this sudden, induced polarization dawned upon him.]
The audition is in the butt of some fancy hotel two blocks away from the ocean. If you listen closely, you can hear the waves crash and wrangle over each other, fighting for a first place in the race to shore. He feels the damp air condense on his skin, heating up his body.
He hates Florida. He wishes they lived in a more dramatic state or country, like Washington or London. The ideal place would have no sunlight [he might have toasted skin, but that doesn't mean he likes toasting his skin] with much rain [because that's the only water he likes, other than showers or drinking it]. Alas, this is his mother's dream state.
She wanted to find some home away from home—a tacky place within an overpopulated area flooded with pop culture and illegal activity. [Nebraska would've been just as good, but she didn't want to be some redneck's cleaner.] She settled for tacky, even though they can't even afford to be as much as generic in Florida. He feels too poor to fit in or stand out. He's like a humanoid robot; you look like the rest from afar, but inside you'll always look different.
Matthew slicks down his wild hair once more with a sweaty hand before straightening his shirt and his glasses simultaneously. He's starting to regret his choice in shirt. [Maybe an offensive, very sexist Underworld t-shirt was a terrible idea for wear?]
The foyer, turned into a makeshift waiting room by framing the walls with chairs, is empty. His anxiety spikes up his throat [or maybe his dicy cafeteria lunch, he's not entirely sure] when he realizes his late arrival might be the end of his almost-flourishing broadway career. He hovers in the doorway for a split second, jumping between different thoughts of I should[n't] and considers to go buy enough Taco Bell for two days and eat it in one sitting.
He tries to peek through the gap separating the double doors. All he sees is the wood pinching together to separate him from the hall.
