The stage is dark and bare, save the trappings of bathroom. A sink. A lightbulb, flickering. A mirror with no reflection. A toilet. A mat. The Woman is still young enough to think of herself as a girl. She perches atop the toilet, feet resting on the lip of the cover, knees tucked under her chin. The Man crouches beside her, one knee pressed into the blue bathmat. He looks romantic, holding her hand on his flat, open palm, like a gift.
It is one of those days when the sun dazzles across the waves and the sky languishes in its warm blue appeal. Once upon a time, these were Angie’s favorite days; days when she would leave her shop door open, bask in the marine musk, and let herself be lulled by the sound of seagulls prizing in the distance, but now the smell that rises from the bay is that of gore and rancor, and the only sounds are the shrieks of constant human suffering.