A Short One Act Play

Posted here by P.B. Adams
Written by Sam Bivins (Who needs to pick up his invitation for Hungry Writers Fiction at Hotmail so he can post here himself. LOL)

In a small coffee shop, a MAN and a WOMAN are seated at a table, downstage right. The man has a visibly black cup of coffee, the woman a humorously oversized blended drink, which should be a very bright shade of pink. She gazes into his eyes rapturously, while he seems rather detached, aloof. There is no one else around save the BARISTA at the cash register, who remains silently watching upstage left. On the radio one can faintly hear a soulful acoustic guitarist, plaintively strumming away.

Man: In my experience, when people tell me they want to "talk," they usually have something to say. So go ahead, what is it?

Woman: I hope I'm not coming on too strong. I just thought that after last night, we should talk about the status of our relationship. It's not anything I want to say, just what I want to hear.

Man: Like what?

Woman: Oh, I don't know. I just have so many questions. Where do we go from here, I guess.

Man: Well, I would like to continue to see you.

Woman: Oh?

Man: Yes, but I refuse to take any initiative. I value my privacy, you understand.

Woman: Oh.

Man: All of this hinges on you. If you want to see me, YOU'LL have to call ME.

Woman, smiling: Well I can do that. I don't mind instigating things--

Man, continuing: --but you should know I never answer my telephone. I hate telephones.

Woman: But then how will I see you? How will we talk?

Man: I can be found every day from four to six in the Thunderbird Cafe, writing.

Woman: This is a bit more eccentricity than I'm used to, but I could handle meeting you there for a time--

Man: --however I hate to be disturbed while I'm writing. How will I finish my book if some pretty young thing interrupts me every other minute to tell me about her day? No, you can't call on me there.

Woman: Wow, I didn't realize you were so artistic. Excuse me a moment. (She leaves to use the restroom)

With a flourish, the MAN produces a pen and paper from his breast pocket and begins scribbling furiously, alternately writing lines and crossing them out, until at last he has finished and triumphantly smacks the table with the flat of his hand. The woman comes back.

Man: For you. (He hands her the paper)

Woman, reading aloud: Plants on water spring
From hope eternal,
Gizite pyramidal structures. (Pauses, ponders. Her face lights up)
Oh my God, that's so beautiful, where did you come up with that?

Man, angrily: From my heart, of course!

Woman: Sorry, so sorry. Where were we?

Man: When I could see you again.

Woman: Yes, when could I see you again?

Man, explosively: I don't know! I need space!

Woman, sorrowfully: Yes, I understand.

Man: I'm leaving now. Don't bother me anymore. (He stands up)

Woman: I feel so cold.

Man: Come by my aprtment this afternoon with a scarf, a bottle of wine, an egg salad sandwich, and your hair in a tight bun and perhaps I'll reconsider. (He exits through a door stage left)

The WOMAN sits at her table, a faraway look in her eye. The BARISTA comes over.

Barista: Anything I can get you, ma'am?

Woman: No...no, I don't think so. I should probably leave.

Barista: You should keep an eye on that one. He's a real talent. A keeper.

Woman: Yes, you're right. I know it. Farewell.

Barista: 'Bye now.

She walks out. The barista stands at the table, watching her as she, too, exits stage left. The lights fade to red, and he smiles and walks back to the counter, whistling. The music becomes louder until it drowns out his whistle. Then the stage turns black.