A One Minute Play
(She is sitting on a bench, peeling an orange. She is taking her time. She is lovely. He comes up behind her, dressed like a hot dog, holding a stack of advertising flyers.)
He: I love you.
(She tosses a piece of orange peel to the ground.)
He: You’re divine. A vision. My favorite thing.
(She pulls the flesh of the orange apart, causing little spurts of orange juice to coat her fingers.)
He: It’s like, when you want to make coffee, but you haven’t put pants on yet, and you think—could anyone really blame me for going to the kitchen without pants on before I’ve had my coffee? But, what if the other people who use the kitchen have already made coffee, and drunk it, and put their pants on, and are standing around in the kitchen in their pants, washing out their mugs, and chatting about Kierkegaard or something, and you come wandering in without your pants and wouldn’t that be awkward? You must put your pants on. But you have an itch, and you have to scratch your itch before you can put on your pants, because it’s chilly today, so the wool pants, which will only amplify your itch, so you go to scratch, and then you think, while your hands are already down there and you haven’t put your pants on yet, and then you remember that it’s your turn to make dinner tonight, and you’ve no ideas, so you better look at some recipes, or at least the pantry, which are in the kitchen with the coffee—both the recipes and the pantry—and last time you were supposed to make dinner you ended up making a foul-tasting concoction of tuna fish and canned tomatoes over quick-cooking pasta because you forgot until the last minute, so you don’t want to embarrass yourself again, so then you think, maybe you should wait long enough to be sure that everyone has already drunk their coffee and washed their mugs and had their chat about Kierkegaard, and gone out to begin their day, so that when you go pants-less into the kitchen to look at the recipes and the coffee, you can be leisurely about it, and take your time, and no one will bring up that last disappointing meal and remind you that it’s your turn to cook dinner and please make something better than that, and you can surprise them with something delightful that they’ll never know you hadn’t planned in advance, but if you wait too long you won’t have enough time to do the grocery shopping before you have to go to work, but that itch, oh that terrible itch, and you’re standing there with one hand on your cock and the other on the doorknob, not really knowing what to do, but knowing that if you only had drunk some coffee you might be better able to make a decision.
(She shoves chunks of orange into her mouth gleefully, and smells her fingers.)
He: I want to eat you with a fork and a sprinkle of Parmesan. I want to crack you open like a hazelnut.
(She coos a little at the orange peels in her lap.)
He: I want to make grocery lists with you. I want to drink our coffee in bed together. I want to stand in the kitchen washing out our mugs and our bloody sheets and your hair and talk about Kierkegaard and the meaninglessness of everything in this world except the curl of your eyelashes and the bruises on your arms.
(She gathers up the last of the peels.)
He: I want to lick your fingers. And scratch you all over, anywhere you itch. Everywhere. Till you have no skin.
(She gets up from the bench, coming face to face with He. He shakily holds out an advertising flyer to her. She shows him her hands full of orange peels. End.)