Dim stage. Single wooden butcher's block table flanked by two antique ladder back chairs on each end. Kayode and Amarachi enter and sit silently with a half empty bottle of 1952 Macallan single malt scotch between them.
K: It is the tragedy of misplaced timing: he loved her first and bled for her...she loved him with a heart riddled with doubts and now that love has overcome the fear & the sweetness comes easy...it is too late because they have lost each other to the bad parts of each other in a 3 year guerilla warfare equal part tenderness equal part bitterness.
Nothing ever prepares you for the double edged sword that love can be, it can give you wings and it can rend your soul into fragments of emptiness. When the wings unfold is when there are no vistas to fly to, when the wind is blowing is when it is snowing in your soul and you cannot fly but huddle in fear and remorse....
(kayode falls silent)
A: But we love still...finger pads screaming...railing against the writing of yet another useless email...pecking out yet another foolish blackberry message...red light spider indicator sending yet another missive to another maybe false champion of your maybe misplaced, maladroit attempt to find another who understands your soul..one who can...play the entire string section to your heartbeat's orchestra...(derisive laugh)...and there is that crazed bagpipe scurl of what may be...dirge singing your heart back into..silent death or...triumphant occupation of hearth built stone for stone by identically calloused yet hopeful hearts...
I have long come to accept that I exist in a world where very few understand my name...but the thought that my mate will remain in ignorant miseducation brought on by...season after season of failed foray into love's cruel circus...lulled into desperate silence... that he will be alone...angry and impotent with the thought that I do not exist...that God somehow forgot to make me for him...will kill me...and so to save myself from my death...I must continue to claw through this mass of misanthropes...until i clasp the hand my Maker made to fit...perfectly within my own...
The words you speak are familiar dearest Kayode...and I understand the disgust you feel each time yet another advance devolves into chaotic bullshit...but I remain determined to unfurl my limbs from their clamped rictus of grotesque new pain...and attempt to turn each of these snowstorms you speak of into fire diamond rain...I mean..what the hell else are we supposed to do?
(And scene)
