“I know what I’d do. Have her peel open my banana.” “You would.” “Then I’d look under the hood. Take my time. Rev her up. Check out her headlights.” “You lost me. You were talking about a piece of fruit?”
I traced her ivory legs from her hemline to her flats, where an out‑of‑place L.L. Bean backpack with the initials T.W.M. rested against her ankle. I would find out later that the initials belonged to one Todd Wayne Mercer, an ex‑boyfriend. He took her virginity; she took his backpack. Fair is fair.
“Strange way to operate. You can’t write a play like that. You can’t just write and write and then choose scenes. Everything stands on what came before it. Things need to be obviously connected.