loved by an idea

a clown -- a regular clown: red nose, bald cap with orange tufts, large and cumbersome trench coat -- unravelled a rope ladder behind him as he walked across the stage. the stage was black and brightly lit with a spot-light which followed him as he walked. he was further encumbered with a large suitcase, also oversized. after he had laid the ladder across the stage, forming an arc, he alleviated himself of the suitcase. he rolled his shoulders and put his hands to the small of his back in the way that people do. then, he opened the suitcase. two white fist-sized balloons floated out and up. he watched them until they disappeared, then looked down into the now-empty suitcase. he looked from the suitcase, sitting at the end of the ladder (which, when on the ground, looked something like a train-track) all the way along the ladder to the place from where he had come. 

 a piercing whistle, like that of a train, startled the clown. he lumbered alongside the ladder, holding the point on his back which held the weight of his pain, and was confronted by another ladder which hung exactly where he realized he wanted to go. on the ladder hung a black coat, above which was propped a white hat -- where a head would be. the clown was still, stunned. another whistle blew, this time louder. the clown looked around with shifty eyes. he nudged his nose with the back of his wrist, and walked toward the coat, looking behind him all the while. when he got to the coat he reached for it, but did not touch it. he went closer. he put his arm out and stroked the limp black sleeve.  he looked up to where the hat hung. he put his arm inside the coat, inside the sleeve -- if you were looking at the spot-light at this point, which was still shining on the empty suitcase, you would have missed this move and thought, like i did, upon seeing it seconds later, that the sleeve had been magically filled with the arm of the woman to whom the coat clearly belonged. the white glove coming out of the coat-sleeve took the naked hand of the orange-haired clown and clutched it tightly. the gloved hand stroked the arm of the clown. the gloved hand cupped his cheek. the clown closed his eyes and rested his face against the folds of the coat. smoke billowed from behind where the clown, being caressed by this coat, stood. the whistle trilled decisively. the clown looked up to the hat, looked to the suitcase, and then into the light which was now coming, growing brighter, from behind the coat. when the light became blinding the clown had to look away. 

the final whistle was accompanied with a wind so powerful that it knocked the clown backwards and the coat, its loving gloved hand vanished, now billowed, now lifted, now flew. the clouds of smoke enveloped the coat and the hat and the clown had to jump quickly off the train-tracks before the train -- invisible, remember -- bowled him over along with the shell of his lover. the smoke, the whistle, the wind -- a shudder passed through the clown from the tip of his electrically charged hair to the rounded toes of his oversized shoes. he looked up: small pieces of paper fell from the ceiling; some caught the drifts of the lingering wind before they scattered around the clown, splayed feet-first on the ground beside his empty suitcase and a crumpled black coat.