MAN and WOMANS Kitchen, a bare room with a table and two chairs. Dishes piled up in and around the sink. MAN enters with hand held out as if holding a bottle of water but his hand is empty. WOMAN sits reading a newspaper. WOMAN does not make eye contact with MAN
MAN: There’s a cock in my hand.
WOMAN: Your hand is empty.
MAN: No, a cock I hold.
WOMAN: You interrupt me claiming to be holding a dick. You’re not cute.
MAN: (Tiny laugh) A dick? No silly brooster, not a dick. A cock, you know…a rooster. With a red comb and tiny tongue. It’s having trouble singing.
WOMAN: YOU HAVE NOTHING IN YOUR HAND! No dick, no comb, no cock, no nothing.
MAN: (Pause. Looks into hand, mutters to himself)
WOMAN: (Long pause) So what do you have to say for yourself?
MAN: To say?…About myself?
WOMAN: What are you talking about?
MAN: You asked if I had anything to say.
WOMAN: (Long silence, glares at the full sink of dirty dishes in anger.)
MAN: You know that spot, on the underside of your knee- not just your knee- anyone’s knee really? I mean, maybe your knee too, I don’t know, I don’t know much…That spot where if touched by the lightest fingertips it makes you pulse like a blender. It’s so tiny, that spot underneath the knee. When activated it becomes the focus. It takes over, you’re no longer in control.
WOMAN: That spot only exists in the nerve endings of the mind, once the catalyst is gone so is the sensation.
MAN: It may be gone but I can still remember what it’s like- that I can never forget.
WOMAN begins crumpling already viewed sections of newspaper into tiny balls occasionally tossing them to the floor.
MAN: I haven’t read the news.
WOMAN: It’s old, washed up.
MAN: Someone once said to me, “if you don’t know about something then it’s like it never happened.”
(Long silence)
WOMAN: Jesus…(Silence)
WOMAN continues to occasionally crumple the paper. MAN sits next to WOMAN and places his hands atop the table.
MAN(CONTD.): Why don’t you look at me?
WOMAN: Because you bore me. You sicken me…Your breath, your stench, your intellect/
MAN: You touch that paper with more affection/
WOMAN: Your yellow eyes, your thin lips, your fingerprints-
MAN: The day we met I told my father…I told him that I just met the woman I was gonna marry. And he told me, “don’t hold your breath.” But I did, and we are happy, and in love. And I’m still holding that breath and I will suffocate before I let it out.
MAN places hands atop WOMAN’S as if telling her to stop crumpling. Maybe a long tension filled silence.
WOMAN: (Pulling hands away) I gotta take the dog for a walk-
MAN: But we don’t have a dog.
WOMAN: And as I walk that pretty little pup someone will say, “Oh my, what a beautiful doggie”…And I’ll wonder: Is that supposed to be some sort of compliment? Or.. I mean, how do you respond? Do you say thanks and nod your tiny stupid head?
(Silence)
Woman: I’ll tell you, you feel guilty for being so superficial in choosing the best looking dog of the bunch.
MAN: I don-
WOMAN: And what happens when that dog, that little pooch, grows old and ugly… and veiny… and grows hair in unspoken places and people stop commenting on how beautiful he is?
MAN: (Pause) But she’ll always be beautiful.
WOMAN: WRONG! You’ll walk with your head down, embarrassed, only noticing the passerby’s shoes, longing for the days you could feel the guilt of picking best of breed.
Man gets on all fours on the floor and begins rounding up the discarded balls of newspaper.
MAN: These words…stories, they lie lonely on the linoleum. Left for dead, forgotten, only called upon if necessary. But I’ll scoop them up and and mold them tightly into my hands. I’ll absorb the black pigments of every last word. I’ll carry them with me forever.
MAN stands holding a giant ball of newspaper tightly pressed upon his chest. WOMAN crumples the remaining paper, also holding it tight, and stares at MAN. She almost says something but doesn’t. They stare at each other for maybe 15 seconds. The lights go black.
