He’s been pulling her strings. Choreographing her life. While she’s been waiting for just this right moment to efficiently snip away his upper hand, with metaphorical scissors-blades sharp from random practice cuts numbering in the thousands. His role as puppet master falls to pieces. Crashes upon his stage in a bisected ruin of body parts and strands of cotton. She, on the other hand, free from wooden articulation, finds her voice, her dance. And as he tries in vain to tie loose ends into knots of control, he doesn’t even notice that his unwilling marionette has fled the building.