Edinburgh Fringe
"Stand-up comedian Roz is bombing on stage. Tech manager Danny saves her show—and discovers her gratitude is wonderfully expressive."
The Edinburgh Fringe in August was beautiful chaos—a city transformed into one giant performance space, every possible venue stuffed with shows, the streets thick with flyers and hopefuls. I'd been running tech for a converted church venue for three years, and I'd seen everything.
Except Roz.
She was scheduled for the 9 PM slot, a comedian I'd never heard of with a show called "Fat Chance." When she showed up for tech check, I understood the title—she was magnificently round, wearing a sparkly dress that screamed confidence, and she looked absolutely terrified.
"First Fringe?" I asked.
"That obvious?"
"Only to someone who's seen a thousand comedians looking exactly like you do right now." I adjusted her microphone. "You'll be fine. The crowd wants you to succeed."
"The crowd wants to laugh. I'm not sure I can make them."
She couldn't. Not at first. Her opening bombed, the audience rustling with the particular discomfort of people watching failure. I could see her spiraling from my booth—voice getting faster, jokes landing flat, confidence crumbling.
Then the lights went out.
It wasn't planned—power surge, probably—but it gave her sixty seconds of darkness while I scrambled. When the lights came back, I'd had an idea.
"Sorry about that, folks," I said over the PA. "Technical difficulties. While we were waiting, I noticed Roz has been going easy on you. Think she can handle the real stuff?"
It was a gamble. But Roz caught on immediately. "Oh, you want the real stuff? You want me to talk about what it's actually like being a fat woman in a world obsessed with 'before' pictures?"
The energy shifted. She dropped the careful material and went raw—funny, furious, heartbreakingly honest. The audience roared. By the end, she had a standing ovation and tears streaming down her face.
"Thank you," she said afterward, finding me in the tech booth. "I don't know what you did, but—"
"I gave you an excuse to stop being safe."
"You saved my show." She grabbed my face and kissed me—quick, impulsive, surprising us both. "Sorry. Got carried away. The adrenaline—"
"Don't apologize." My heart was hammering. "That was the best show I've seen all Fringe."
"That was the first good show I've ever done." She was still close, close enough that I could smell her perfume under the performance sweat. "Can I buy you a drink? I feel like I owe you more than a surprise kiss."
The drink became dinner, became walking the Royal Mile at midnight, became ending up at her rented flat in the Old Town.
"I should warn you," she said at the door. "I'm not very good at one-night stands."
"Neither am I."
"So this probably won't be one?"
"Probably not." I took her hand. "Is that a problem?"
"The opposite of a problem."
Her flat was a disaster—costumes everywhere, notes for jokes tacked to every surface, the particular creative chaos of someone living entirely inside their work. She pushed aside a pile of wigs to make room for us on the sofa.
"I should shower," she said. "I'm disgusting."
"You're beautiful."
"I just did an hour under stage lights. I'm literally sweating sequins."
"Still beautiful." I kissed her properly this time, without the surprise, and she melted into it like she'd been waiting all night. Her body against mine was soft and warm and exactly right, and when she started pulling at my clothes, I didn't stop her.
"Bedroom," she gasped between kisses. "Has fewer wigs."
The bedroom did have fewer wigs. It also had a bed that groaned when we collapsed onto it, and a woman who made me forget every previous Fringe fling I'd ever had. Roz was responsive, uninhibited, funny even in bed—cracking jokes that made me laugh and then immediately moan.
"You're supposed to find me sexy," she complained when I laughed at something.
"I find you incredibly sexy. And also hilarious. The two aren't mutually exclusive."
"Then shut up and prove it."
I proved it. Multiple times, in multiple positions, while Edinburgh buzzed with performance outside. When we finally collapsed, sweaty and satisfied, she curled against me like we'd been doing this for years.
"Same time tomorrow?" she asked.
"Your show's not till nine."
"I wasn't talking about the show."
I was there every night for the rest of her run. Watching from the booth as she got better and better, saving her moments when the tech or the audience didn't cooperate, meeting her after to continue what we'd started.
"What happens when Fringe ends?" she asked on the last night.
"You go back to London. I stay here."
"That's not what I'm asking." She turned to face me. "Danny. What happens with us?"
"What do you want to happen?"
"I want you to come to London. Watch my shows. Keep saving me when I'm bombing." She took my hand. "I want to keep doing this. Whatever this is."
I moved to London three months later. Got a tech job at a comedy club where Roz performs regularly. She's good now—really good—and she credits me with the save that started it all.
Some couples meet through apps or setups or careful planning. We met through a power surge and a woman brave enough to stop being safe. The Edinburgh Fringe is chaos, but sometimes chaos is exactly what you need—to find yourself, to find your voice, and to find someone who'll be there in the booth when the lights go out.