from: the plays
written: 10/2015

Written alongside the same room, around midnight. The futon couch has become a bed. E is breathing deeply, no wait, he is standing and going to the window, no wait, he speaks. He speaks to me. I look over to his opening between the makeshift curtains but i can only see blackness after peering into my computer screen. We exchange a few warm words. Through the glass door that leads onto the front terrace a street light lights some branches with the normal Brussels-streetlamp Yellow. In the street a car washes past through a long puddle. No sirens blaring. A drying rack full of wet laundry blocks the view of all the city lights so all i can see is the sky above. A rich plum screen overlaid with a thin cover of roughly uniform cloud. E has resumed his calm breathing. He is meditating. As I should be I suppose. No, wait. Through the blackened outline of a chair's legs, between its legs and it’s struts to be exact, I see the glowing red eye of the power strip looking up at the ceiling. It has always been lit up, it just takes turning the lights off to notice it.


Jean (47) is sitting at a large wooden table when the curtain rises. the table top is covered in glass beads and she is looking them over, occasionally picking one up and moving it next to others to see how they look together. Marty (32) enters.

Jean: How are you sir?

Marty: Well, yourself?

He goes to stand over her shoulder and examine her work.

I like that. Those are nice, yeah.

Jean: How’d you fare at the fair?

Marty: Yeah, alright. They, it wasn’t our crowd really, but they nibbled.

Jean: Any of the bigger one’s move?

Marty: No, alas, no, but we did have some serious lookers, I think, some seriously interested candidates.

Jean: seeming to finish her work on the table. There we go that’s done. Go, ahead and lace it through, you can use the regular fish line, and I’ll be back to check your work. I have to go and see about one of the smaller spaces in Kent.