I've always been fond of the speech that opened that play. I figure why not share it here too? This was written for Moira Stone (and so it bears her name), and it borrows largely from improvisational material generated by the cast of Exposition.
On a side note: it's nice to share some of my creative work in this space. I don't do it that often, and I hope to remedy that.
She asked me if I would zip it up for her. I said I would. She turned around. I zipped her up. I don’t know. It could have been the way she turned around that made me start crying. But it was only a little bit of crying, and she didn’t notice it. Or she did notice it, and she didn’t say anything about it. She does that. She actively says nothing. Chooses zero.
She’s cheerful. She’s stuffed into this turquoise and coral dress like it’s a pig’s mouth and she’s an apple. Years ago, she was sitting in a pair of beige pants and only her bra sobbing into an ashtray. I was, what? Ten? Younger? She asked me to open a box of cigarettes because she couldn’t. Now, here we are. Here she is. I work somewhere, I do something, I’m married, I don’t think about being married. It’s all she thinks about. Being married.
When she dies… I wonder if she even will die. Will she? She could. She’s supposed to I guess. If she does, when she does, I’m going to just watch television and wear jeans. I’m going to flop down on a couch and watch TV until I just flick it off and then I’ll stare at the black screen and wait. Did you know that when the TV is off…it’s dreaming? Of Sanford and Sons and Car 54 Where Are You and waves and pixels and light trapped in tombs. Of light trapped underground in Paris. When it closes its eyes, it’s dreaming.