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Member
Join Date: Jun 2006
Posts: 2
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(Untitled)
No title yet, any suggestions for one that would be apt are appreciated. All comments, criticisms and questions about the piece are welcomed. Thanks.
On. The music’s on. He can’t stand it. He leaves it on. Not long ago, he put it on. Opted for an embaraßingly stereotypical mood-setter. Now, wants to opt out of the choice. A bell sounds from the front of the flat. The insignificance of the music becomes clear. His guest is
On time. She arrives. The Guest. He hears her exchange brief pleasantries (Hi hello I’mherefor... he’sinhisroom theoneoverthere? yeahthat’stheone) with The Roommate before she steps down the short hall. Knocks on his bedroom door. He lets her in. I’m not too early am I? No, he looks at his watch, it’s still a few minutes until ten o’clock, the time they had arranged. As long as someone was there to let you in, he told her. That’s all that matters, he thought.
Ongoing. The back-and-forth of their banter. So how long have you known Jeßica? Jeß? Um, we just met earlier this year. Really? The way she refered you to me -- Excuse me? Refered? Shit, this is not the time for anyone to get upset. Sorry, sorry. How she spoke of you, I meant to say, how she spoke of you it seems like you two have been good friends for awhile. Yeah, The Guest, reluctantly, well I gueß we got close fast.
Onslaught. He can’t stand it, the barrage of thoughts. Is this right? Of course it is, the end justifies the means, right? Right? Wrong? Right. Wrong. Barrage (isthisright?). Look at her standing there, look at what she’s wearing. What did The Roommate think? Exactly what he was supposed to think. The Guest glides unnoticed away from the room’s entranceway, grabs a segment of bed for a seat. He notices and with stymied steps joins her. I don’t even know this girl, this isn’t right. He confirms his wallet is at hand, this isn’t right. The thoughts, an onslaught. He can’t stand it. But he opens his mouth and stands it. The conversation plods
Onward. Small-talk in the most literal of senses, as both have little interest in what the other says. Neither has interest in what they themselves say. The conversation peters out and the music takes over. Mellow mood-setting rhythms played at a volume too loud to set any comfortable mood. He can’t stand it. But he bites his lip and stands it. And releases his lip and asks: Are you alright with this mu--? Yeah, the music’s fine. Because if you want it changed it’d probably be best to do it now-- It’s fine, I really don’t care what music’s on. He nods. The insiginificance of the music becomes clear. He sits up from the bed and makes his way to a switch by the room’s closed door. The lights go
Off.
...Is he gonna stop calling? Ha, that’s wishful thinking. Well... why don’t you unhook the phone? Can’t do that... Why not? I already turned off my cell. My parents will freak out if they call and they get that disconnected sound. But you’re not going to be answering it anyway... Yeah, but they’ll just think I’m out or busy... they won’t think I haven’t been paying my phone bill.
An ebb of silence produces itself before she, The DreamGirl, questions: How much are you paying Melißa? We don’t need to talk about this right now... No I’m just curious. I hope it’s enough, because she had other plans for tonight. A more abbreviate ebb before: But not too much, I mean, she isn’t really doing anything. He sets his eyes on on hers, The Dreamgirl’s. Well, he manages weakly, she’s helping us...
Off. The lights in the bedroom are off as The Guest leaves it. She’s restleß, a leß than neceßary trek to the bathroom the only means to combat the boredom. Until her eye is caught. Hey stranger. Hey. Pretty late to be up isn’t it? Is it? The Roommate looks at his watch, still a few minutes until three, I guess it is. The Guest approaches The Roommate, sits down beside him. Not watching TV, whatareya doing up? Ah nothing really, the answer doesn’t suffice, trying to call my girlfriend, her phone’s off though. Oh. It’s never
Off. Oh? Yeah... I get the feeling something’s up. Really? Tell me about it, The Guest’s voice, breath closer than moments before. I think it’s intentional. I think she’s avoiding me. Recently I’ve been getting a weird vibe from her... Before revealing too much to a stranger, his friend’s visitor: What are you doing up this late? I was going to the bathroom... Oh I won’t keep you then-- But I don’t really have to. The statement, by itself, doesn’t suffice. It was cold in there. Cold? Yeah the window’s open. The window’s open? It’s February. Yeah he opened it for some reason... The answer is
Off putting. (For some reason.) He’s asleep you know. Really? Yeah. I’d bet anything he won’t be walking out of there anytime soon... Once the oon of soon is whispered gently, forcibly, The Guest’s appetite is clear. The Roommate can’t help but to catch
On.
...The talking, it needs to stop. You were the first choice, really, I swear. It’s a terrible thing to say, but he’s... he’s a silver medal in a way. Great guy. Great, absolutely, but you... The thinking, it needs to stop. Is this right? This can’t be right. The talking (Onslaught) doesn’t help. So he looks at The DreamGirl in the darkness of her room. Considers, for a last time, The Guest, alone in the darkness of his own room. I wonder if she’s sleeping? I wonder if The Roommate bought-- And a kiß, the first they ever share in sobriety. The thoughts (thisisn’tright isthisright?) stop. A kiß. An extended kiß. A kißsssssß.
Once inside her, sober but drunk with desire but sober, really sober, he forgets. He forgets to remember exactly who he’s doing this to...
Onslaught.
The Roommate sits acroß from him, eating eggs (overeasy) in silence. He sits acroß from The Roommate, eating cold cereal (uneasily) in silence. The Guest left early in the morning, before either was up and about, for better (for her) or for better (for them). The two young men both eat slowly to evade conversation. Both eat intently to avoid choking on... The talking, it can’t start. The thoughts, they won’t stop. A first choice. A silver medal. A pang of guilt. A suspiscion. An egg. A broken yolk. An ebb. A kiß. A window. A pang of guilt. Another. A suspicion. Another. The Roommate. And him. The Cheater. The Cheater? No. A Cheater.
On time. As if by clockwork, the plate becomes bare and the bowl empties simultaneously. Their meals are done and they exchange curt nods, nothing further, and stand up. In opposite directions they walk
Off.
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