First Hit

  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.