Take Seven w/Snare drum, Piano & Sax

by James Lloyd Davis

         Jazz quartet is playing a quiet turn in the background.  Sax riff takes off with sexy, subtle tones.  Scene blinks up from the black:
         A man and a woman at a bus stop, staring at the approaching bus.
         He says, “The bus is coming.”
         She says, “What does that really mean?”
         “Don't be cute.”
         “Look at me.  How can I not be cute?”
         Bus stops in front of them.  The basso profundo screech and release of air brakes.  A woman in a black mouton coat steps off and walks away.
         She says, “Is this where you say ‘He wasn't on the bus,' and you ask me what time it is?”
         “Why didn't you get on?”
         “Why didn't you?”
         He's wearing a grey suit and a diagonally striped tie.  Brown shoes.  She's wearing a skirt, wrinkled in the back about an inch below her knees.  Blouse with frills under a grey wool coat that ends below her skirt three inches below her knees.  Nylons, black heels, a strange hat, boxed but elongated, peaked at the front, pastel blue with quetzal feather.  Her name flashes like block letters shaded in blue in front of her.  The image sinks and fades into the sidewalk.
         “That's my name.  Yours?”
         “Mister Sinclair.”
         “Who are you?”
         “I'm the man who wants to read Proust, but settles for Kierkegaard because…”  He stops.
         “Why did you stop?”
         “Do you want me to explain your life?”

         Scene opens in a one-room flat.  It's midnight.  He's awake in bed, smoking.  She's standing naked in front of the refrigerator.  He sees her in the light that's blocked by the one bottle of wine that rests on the shelf inside next to the cheese and the ham they bought on the way to her apartment.  This is her apartment, spare, artistic in its Spartan way.  There is a book on the table by the bed. 
         He glances over, reads the name on the binding.  “Kierkegaard!  I knew you would have a copy of something Kierkegaard.”
         She's a profile, a lovely profile.  She looks back at him, smiles.
         He says, “You'll catch cold standing there.”
         “I don't have cream.”
         “So we skip the coffee and go back to the exploration of our synchronistic selves.”
         She looks over her shoulder, says, “Want some wine?”
         “No.  You said you were going to explain my life.”
         “I lied.”
         Fade to black.  Music comes back with a soft trap and a feather beat, sax screams, piano …