FORBIDDEN ROMANCE

a 10 minute play in verse by Tim West

CHARACTER BREAKDOWN-

MICHAEL -cis male, mid-40s a man with a decent-paying job at the very bottom of his professional capacity –though unfair to call him a ‘sell-out.’ We don’t always recognize talent and give it scope. MICHAEL didn’t get that, despite his pretty evident privileges. He’s a decent enough bloke, though.
And he tries to see to it that he gives scope and opportunity to others. He is not un-aware that his relationship with ANNA as her supervisor may be preventing her from following her own aspirations.
But any envy or other ugliness, if evident, is surely unconscious.

ANNA -cis-female, 31 a woman with a job that feels a bit beneath her now; though she’s never liked to think of herself as ‘too good’ for anything she simply had to do. Ambitious would put a spin on it,
but aspiring misses her grit. If ANNA has allowed herself to slumber, she is now intent on not wasting
her abilities. She’s fond of MICHAEL, and in truth she knows he’s helped her be better at her job.
But she also fears he will hold her back, without wanting to or even really trying to. If she seems at all mercenary or unkind, we’re missing what she’s about.

At LIGHTS UP,  MICHAEL and ANNA, professionally dressed in a business office, are perusing manuscript submissions, with a tall, neat stack of unread copies, a small pile of ‘maybes,’ and a huge, messy mountain of rejects.

MICHAEL, mid-40s, slouches in a chair, ANNA, 31, lies on a sofa or chaise.

MICHAEL sighs, tosses a script ondiscard pile, and takes up another from the stack.
A beat. He sits upright.

MICHAEL:

Here’s a classic bit of literary kitsch:
How’s this for an aspiring author’s pitch?

(in a mock-dramatic tone)

“ ‘There’s no good men,’ my sister said.  
The man I want, though, isn’t good.”

She writes a great slug-line, I’ll grant her that.

ANNA:
But how’s the manuscript itself?

MICHAEL:
It’s bad. Another Bad Boy script.

MICHAEL adds it to the discards.

ANNA:
–I like the bad boys. What can I say?
But how bad is he? 30 Shades of Gray
Bad? Or maybe just a little more… you know.

MICHAEL:
Well, Anna, it’s a proper spanking.

ANNA:
Oh.

MICHAEL:

Like, knickers down, across his lap.

ANNA:
Oh my.

MICHAEL:
Not really up our alley, is it?

ANNA:
No. 

MICHAEL:
Bills & Moons Romances aren’t for low-grade fetishists.
We leave that line of grunting, rutting sweatiness
To the purveyors of… well, outright smut.
We’re in the romance novel business.

ANNA:
But…

MICHAEL:
–No “Buts”! And certainly no spanking with…
One’s brother-in-law.

ANNA:
The brother-in-law.

MICHAEL takes up the next script.

After a moment…

This one’s love interest is her father-in-law.

ANNA:
Ew.

MICHAEL:
Right? 

ANNA: 
This is a woman writer’s fantasy?

MICHAEL:

                                                              Uh… 

He hadn’t thought to look: does now.

At least, a female pseudonym: “Sabrina Storm.” 

But the title’s unoriginal: Forbidden. 

ANNA: (wincing)
                  Oof! Bad form.

MICHAEL:
Yes, it’s a little bit too literal.
But really, though, her title’s immaterial,
And we can change the title, if we chose.

ANNA:
“The new romance best seller: Daddy Issues.”

They share a laugh. MICHAEL pitches it.

ANNA:
Well, if it’s a May/December thing we want,
This story is called “Master of the Hunt.”

MICHAEL:
What’s that? A Rebecca/Jane Eyre set up,
With Rochester/De Winter in a fox-hunt get-up
The little red jacket, white pants and top-hat?

ANNA:
Well, it’s a May/December Romance that…
Has a kind of twist: 

MICHAEL:
                                    Another vampire tale?

ANNA:
You guessed it. Another story where the male’s
A century or two her senior.

MICHAEL:
       Well… 
Could we make it a werewolf? 

ANNA:
                                                     That might sell.
Cut the undead boyfriend, keep the sexy beast. 

MICHAEL:
Make all the dog lovers happy, at the least.

ANNA:
But, like most of these, it’s pretty much… pedestrian.

ANNA stands, drops it on the pile,
nudges the rubbish heap with a toe.

The hard-driving coach and the Olympic equestrian.
The girl with the glasses and the university professor.
The medieval nun and her father-confessor…
–This one has a priest who does her on an altar.

She stoops and digs through them.

Another vampire one. A dwarf. A centaur.
They try so hard to set themselves apart,
But wind-up being no fresher than a fart.

MICHAEL crinkles his nose and laughs.

MICHAEL:
Why, that’s Bills & Moons Romance, my sweet!
It’s not some kind of literary feat.
You’re editing the tawdry Dime-Store Novel,
The Penny Dreadfuls of the modern day.

ANNA:
Was it for this I went to university?

MICHAEL:
Surprised, what a degree in English will not buy?
Your school wasn’t posh enough, is why.
Sorry, this is the young book editor’s fate.
I’m afraid Virginia Woolf will just have to wait.

ANNA crosses behind MICHAEL,
placing her hands on his shoulders.

ANNA:
Are you ready to knock off? It’s getting late.

MICHAEL:
Not here, we said. Not in the workplace.

ANNA:
Oh, no… As that’s forbidden. Isn’t that so?
We wouldn’t want the higher ups to know… 

MICHAEL:
Know what? That you’re a woman, and I’m a man?
They won’t care. 

ANNA:
Well, it’s actionable. 

MICHAEL:
They wouldn’t dare

ANNA: (crossing to the door, loudly)
Oh good! Let’s tell the world! I’m game!
“Michael and I have been sleeping together for months!”

MICHAEL:
It’s late. There’s noone here. No one can hear you, Anna. Stop.

ANNA:
Well, if it wouldn’t mean the end of the world  –Why not?

MICHAEL:
It’s more about the way it looks. You work for me.

ANNA:
Oh, I get it. That’s the mistake. Oh, now I see:
It’s not the sex that is forbidden.
It’s the power disparity that must be hidden.

ANNA considers before she says this.

I’ve thought to ask you if I ought not
Go to work at some-or-other house.
Find a place with more literary leanings…

MICHAEL closes his eyes, waiting.

I’ve wanted to say so, I’ve been meaning
to say it.

MICHAEL:
Then say it.

ANNA:
I’ve had an offer —for another job.

MICHAEL:
Not happy with the pay? You want more ‘bob’?

ANNA:
They publish novels, Michael. Literature.

MICHAEL: (chiding, not mean)
You little snob.

ANNA:
I’d like to accept the position.

MICHAEL: 
                                                       …And?

ANNA:
I’d like your reference. 

MICHAEL:
“And we’ll always be friends”?

ANNA:
It’s not like that. I just… I need to move on.
Move on with my life. I’m 31.

MICHAEL:
You’re not a child, hon. You don’t need my okay.

ANNA:
You’ll act as reference?

MICHAEL:
                                          Whatever you say: 
“She has astoundingly good taste.”
In men, at any rate. What a waste
Of talent to be working in a place
That asks so little of you. Well then, yes:
You’ll have my reference.

He looks at her, and smiles.

You need to think about yourself.

A pause. ANNA smiles back.

ANNA:
I rather liked the one about the dwarf.

FADE OR BLACKOUT. END OF PLAY.

GOLDBERG VARIATIONS

a 10 min. play by Tim West

IN THE BLACK, we hear Bach’s Aria BWV 988 arranged for classical guitar by Jozsef Eotvos. 

LIGHTS UP on PROFESSOR R in a white lab coat, rubber gloves, and protective goggles, making loving adjustments to a rough approximation of a Rube Goldberg machine –ie an assortment of items in absurd causal sequence, as in the cartoonist’s work. 

For our purpose, it needn’t be a functional prop, but a series of related items of interest that merely suggest the machinery. A few items in series are referenced in the text: A foot is  suspended vertically.
At its toe, a small pyramid of beer cans, on a level above a child’s plastic beach pail. A small birdcage is 
adjacent sllhouetted against a window-shade. A microphone attached by wires to a hamster cage with
a treadmill, with a treadle connected to a tennis racket, suspended horizontally, set to hit a tennis ball, suspended from a string. Some items, yet to be added to the model, lie in a crate to one side.
They needn’t be practical props, just oddities. an old vacuum cleaner, a bowling ball, whatever.
The crate sits on a carpet of oversized blueprint. 

PROFESSOR refers to the oversize blue print, then grabs a boot from the crate and holds it up to the foot –for fit. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Yes, yes! Cowboy boot kicks the beer can, which clatters into the plastic trash pail, which lifts  the blind and startles the parrot, who squacks. Devilishly clever, Goldberg. They laughed at you,  but it’s sheer genius. The only difficulty is, where to obtain a parrot? 

He goes to the computer, types seven characters, and hits enter. 
He manipulates the mouse as indicated. 

Click. Click. “Your source for exotic birds in the Midwest.” Click, click. Click, click, click. “Squack.” Then the parrot’s squack is picked up by the microphone, which transforms the signal into a  series of— 

MRS. R: (off) 
Darling? 

PROFESSOR R: 
Oh no!

PROFESSOR R hurriedly throws a sheet over the part
of the contraption with the hamster and tennis racket. 

MRS. R: (off) 
Dearest, are you home? 

PROFESSOR R: 
In the work-shop. 

MRS. R enters. She looks like she’s been out to quite an elegant evening.
There’s a sense of it being a tad overdone, her night at the opera. 

MRS: R: 
What are you doing in the basement— er, workshop? 

PROFESSOR R: 
Barbara! You’re home early. How was the symphony? 

MRS. R: 
It was Bach. Tedious. But I sat with the Lattimores, in their private box. Ellen Lattimore has  persuaded Hank to give as much as a hundred thousand dollars to the Fund, but he actually  thought it would work best as a matching gift with him getting some of his contacts at the foundation— Have you been at the internet again? 

PROFESSOR R:  
Just tonight. 

MRS. R: 
All evening? 

PROFESSOR R: 
No. You can check my history. I just logged on, just before you got home. Just browsing. 

MRS. R: 
You know what Dr. Kassner said about the internet: Not Healthy, Owen. Not healthy. Dangerous. Moderation. Nothing in excess. 

PROFESSOR R: 
I know.  

MRS. R: 
What’s this?

PROFESSOR R: 
Nothing. 

MRS. R examines the screen. 

MRS. R: 

Exotic … birds? 

PROFESSOR R: 

It’s nothing. 

MRS. R: 
“Mr. Micawber”? “Polly McCrackers”? 

PROFESSOR R: 
I was looking for someone to talk to. 

MRS. R: 
These are expensive. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Turns out talk isn’t cheap. 

MRS. R: 
Very funny, but pets can’t understand you, Owen. They just repeat what you say back to you. You know what Dr. Kassner says about authentic communication. 

PROFESSOR R: 

Two-way street? Double-edged sword? Mutually assured destruction! 

MRS. R: 
Very amusing, if your tastes run to such humor. Your sense of humor seems oddly misplaced, these days, I must say. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Dr. Kassner says he’s surprised I still have a sense of humor. 

MRS. R: 
Your own private little coping mechanism, hm? 

PROFESSOR R: 
Like the opera? Or the bloody fund?

MRS. R: 
Don’t be cruel, Owen. The Lattimores are giving more than a hundred thousand dollars  to Loren’s fund. Perhaps as much as two hundred thousand. That’s a significant contribution  toward a real and lasting memorial to our daughter. 

PROFESSOR R: 
I didn’t mean to be cruel.  

MRS. R: 
That’s my coping mechanism. 

PROFESSOR R: 
I just thought that a pet bird would— 

MRS R: 
Wasn’t the hamster enough? 

PROFESSOR R: 
The doctor said a pet might help. 

MRS R: 
It’s part of the psychosis, Owen.  

PROFESSOR: 
I don’t understand. 

MRS. R: 
The hamster, because Loren had a hamster at school.  

PROFESSOR R: 
I don’t remember that. 

MRS. R: 
She wrote home about it.  

PROFESSOR R: 
I don’t remember reading that. 

MRS. R: 
When she was at school. 

PROFESSOR: 
Perhaps it was redacted?

MRS. R: 
What? 

PROFESSOR R: 
That headmaster was pretty strict. There it is again. 

MRS. R: 
Your coping mechanism. It proves I’m right about the hamster  

MRS. R looks at him disapprovingly, inspects the machine, partly draped in sheet. 

MRS. R: 
What are you working on now? 

PROFESSOR R: 
Oh, nothing especially. Tinkering. 

MRS. R: 
Tinkering. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Well, you know what Dr. Kassner said. It’s good therapy. Tinkering.  

MRS. R: 
Tinkering. This is another of your inventions, isn’t it? Is it? 

PROFESSOR R: 
No. 

MRS. R: 
Because you know what Dr. Kassner said about those. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Yes. 

MRS. R: 
This obsession with the workshop.  

PROFESSOR R: 
The workshop is good for me. 

MRS. R: 
But these “inventions,” I mean. 

PROFESSOR R: 
But that’s what I am. An inventor. I hold patents. 

MRS. R: 
Yes, yes. Holder of twenty-two patents for medical devices. Two-times nominated for the  Nobel Prize
in Medicine. But you know what Dr. Kassner said about these absurd obsessions.  The Water Engine.
The Perpetual Motion Machine. You’re projecting some kind of impossible  task on yourself. To punish yourself for not saving Loren. You invent something that can never  be invented. 

PROFESSOR R: 
This isn’t an invention. It’s an art project. Purposeless. That’s alright. Even Kassner says so. 

MRS. R: 
Only if you’re not obsessing. Owen, are you obsessing? 

PROFESSOR R: 
No. 

MRS. R: 
What is this? 

PROFESSOR R: 
My art project. 

MRS. R: 
It looks like an invention. 

PROFESSOR R: 
It does. But it’s not. It’s art. 

MRS. R: 
Where did you get that foot? 

PROFESSOR R: 
I sawed it off a mannequin. And I drank all that beer. The foot kicks them into the pail. 

MRS. R: 
How peculiar. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Etcetera, etcetera. It’s a Rube Goldberg machine. He was an old-time cartoonist, back at the  beginning of the last century, and he designed these absurd contraptions.

MRS. R: 
A cartoonist. 

PROFESSOR R: 
On paper. And what I’m doing is building one. Just for the hell of it. It’s art. It’s not really an  invention. I mean, it’s not practical. And I know that. 

MRS. R: 
I’d say that’s almost the definition of art. Honestly, Owen, it seems a bit contrived, but  Dr. Kassner has advised me that some project, any project, would be therapeutic for you. Just not the inventions. I do wish you would involve yourself with Loren’s fund. We could  do so much good in her name.  

PROFESSOR R: 
Dr. Kassner says that’s your mechanism, not mine. 

MRS. R notices the boot in the crate. 

MRS. R: 
Is this one of Loren’s riding boots? 

PROFESSOR R: 
No. We threw hers out. 

MRS. R looks examines the boot, sure it’s Loren’s. 

MRS. R: 
We agreed it was healthier to divest ourselves of the keepsakes. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Yes, yes. 

MRS. R; 
Remember what Dr. Kassner said. 

PROFESSOR R: 
What Kassner said, yes. 

MRS. R notices the tennis racket. 

MRS. R: 
The tennis racket.

PROFESSOR R: 
What of it? 

MRS. R: 
The one she got from the Make-A-Wish people? 

PROFESSOR R: 
This isn’t the same one. 

MRS. R: 
It looks just like it. 

PROFESSOR R: 

No Stephie Graf autograph. 

MRS. R: 
It was Martina Navratolovna, and you know it. 

PROFESSOR R: 
It didn’t even fetch that much at auction. 

MRS. R: 
Every little bit helped. 

PROFESSOR R: 
We got more for her horse. 

MRS. R: 
All in a worthy cause. 

PROFESSOR R: 
Loren’s Fund. 

MRS. R: 
Yes. 

MRS. R gingerly removes the sheet covering the hamster’s cage and wire treadmill. 

MRS. R: 
Have you at least been feeding the hamster? 

PROFESSOR R: 
It’s being well cared for.

MRS. R looks at the machine. 

MRS. R: 
What about the beer cans? 

PROFESSOR R: 
She used to drink from my beer. When she was a teenager. She thought I didn’t know. 

MRS. R: 
Oh. Dr. Kassner will want to know. 

PROFESSOR R: 
But my dear, it’s not an invention. I am under no delusion that it has any practical use.
It’s just art, Barbara. 

MRS. R: 
I still think Dr. Kassner will want to know about it, Owen.  

PROFESSOR R: 
Then tell Dr. Kassner. I don’t expect it to work. I don’t expect anything to work. I don’t think  my twenty-two medical patents mean a thing. I don’t want a Nobel Prize. I don’t want any part of your wretched fund. I don’t interfere with it, if that’s what you want to do with our money.  I just don’t expect it to work. All I ask is to be let alone to work on my projects. And I no longer expect them to work. 

MRS. R: 
It’s not healthy, Owen. 

PROFESSOR R: 
I’m not hurting anybody. 

MRS. R: 
It’s not helping. 

PROFESSOR R: 
We’ll let Dr. Kassner decide. 

PROFESSOR returns to tinkering with his machinery. MRS. R regards him with a mixture of old pity
and new concern, then exits as she came. MUSIC as before. 

PROFESSOR tinkers with his machinery as LIGHTS FADE TO BLACK. END OF PLAY.

Due

a 10 min play by Tim West

SYNOPSIS:

Needing a renewal, older patron MARGARET (60s) seeks out young staff assistant ANNA (20s) in the timeless setting of a public library. The book is yet to be written, though –and the writing process will prove difficult.

DUE – Characters

MARGARET –60s, a library patron, who is looking for a renewal. She’s eccentric, and down with it. Other people’s judgement no longer an issue for her. She doesn’t mean to be harsh. In fact, she’s here to help.

ANNA –20s, library assistant, a bright light but still under the bushel, is focused on her job. She is good with books, finds people less manageable. She doesn’t know what she’s missing, until she does.

At LIGHTS UP,  ANNA (20s) loads books to/from cart/shelf, sorting by number, humming oddly to herself. “Asst,” her name-tag tells us. MARGARET (60s) stands behind her, with her book. ANNA, aware, does not look up.

MARGARET:
*ahem* Pardon me, Miss: You do work here, yes?

ANNA: (without looking up)
I do.

MARGARET:
I thought as much! –although I must confess /
That I’ve approached two other bookish women.
—Contact lenses were so much more uncommon, then!

ANNA: (without looking up)
Sorry?

MARGARET: (making it up)
…er, Ancient Egypt: Tuntankahmen?

ANNA: (pointing off)

Melville Dewey Decimal Number 9-3-2–oh-1-4-oh.

MARGARET:

—Well, look at you! It’s so confusing. All the staff I thought I knew from way-back-when look far-less-agéd now.

ANNA: (correcting her)
–“More agéd now,” I think you mean. 

MARGARET:                                                         
–Ow, wow. Neither of us getting any younger, dear. You’re the librarian, did you say?

ANNA stands and addresses MARGARET. 

ANNA:
I’m //one among a half-a-dozen// here…

MARGARET:
  …//one among a half-a-dozen// bookish girls who staff the place.
I really ought not laugh at that. —Laugh with, not at, at least. I was a bookish girl myself.

ANNA: 
How may I help you, Madame?

MARGARET:

Did I say I needed help? Did I need something? What did I need?

ANNA:

*sigh* You asked me if I worked here, Madame. Look…

MARGARET: 
They are not the same, though, are they?

ANNA: 
I see you have your book. //The Computer Self-Check-Out…//

MARGARET: (imitating ANNA)  

—//”the Computer Self-Checkout’ is right behind you, there.”// But I already tried Self-Check-Out -–or was that the ‘Card Catalog’? I’m so confused. Oh, dear!

ANNA:
Well, if you turn around, you’ll see Self-Check-Out right there next to it. To the catalog. There. Right behind you. To your right. Just look.

MARGARET:
My right as I’m facing you, or to the right, after I turned? ‘Stage Right’ or ‘House Right’?

ANNA:

If you’d like a librarian to check it out for you…

MARGARET:

Aren’t you the librarian? “Assistant,” yes. Well… couldn’t you assist me? …‘Anna.’

ANNA:
My name’s not on my nametag. How did you know?

MARGARET passes the book under a laser.
There’s the ‘bonk’ of an electronic error tone.

MARGARET: (as ANNA) 
-–-“Oh my! This book’s already checked-out.”

ANNA:
Perhaps someone returned it surreptitiously. It needs to be reshelved.

MARGARET:
It’s checked out to me. I’m ‘Margaret.’ 

ANNA takes the book from MARGARET, then immediately hands it back to her.

ANNA:

Well, there you go, then, ‘Margaret’: It’s all checked out to you, now.

MARGARET:

I know that, ‘Anna.’ I want you to renew.

ANNA:
Oh! A Renewal. We don’t usually get those. Not til //long past overdue.//

MARGARET:
                                                                                //Long past overdue//

ANNA:
Here, we’ll just…

ANNA holds three keys down at once. 

(a buzz) That’s odd. It won’t… (another buzz) Why won’t it…? (last buzz) Hold on.

(she reads.)

…You’ve already renewed this… How many times? The limit is two…
—Wait: How did you check this?

MARGARET:
I asked a nice librarian. 

ANNA:
According to the database…

ANNA clicks, types, clicks. Peers.

This book’s already checked-out, then renewed. Not once or twice but regularly. Hundreds of times. This must be some kind of I.T. glitch. How many times have you–?

MARGARET:
Whatever it says. Two’s all you’re supposed to, right? And I can’t pay my fine.

ANNA reads her screen again.

ANNA:
At fifteen cents a day… $3,832.50. Card is in the name of… Wait: You wrote this book!

MARGARET:
I did.

ANNA:
You’re ‘Margaret Bayer Rhys.’

MARGARET:
It’s true: my pseudonym.

ANNA:
Well, don’t you own a copy, Mrs. Rice?

MARGARET:
It’s ‘Reese.’ I never needed to. 

ANNA:
Well, certainly you could–

MARGARET:
Long out-of-print and rare, I’m told. And antiquarians cannot locate one.

ANNA:
But you could. //Here.//

MARGARET:
//Here.// My hometown library. The librarian then, she bought a copy. For not a lot 
of money. But such pride in me. The auditorium’s named for her, you know.

ANNA:
What auditorium?

MARGARET:
Why, Tierney Hall. For a long time, Helen kept a copy in the front display.
‘Local author makes good.’ That was nice.

ANNA:
I don’t remember that display. We’ll place it in the stacks to be //re-shelved.//

MARGARET:
//Reshelved.// They blocked my card. I can’t check out.  I never could afford that fine.

ANNA:
If Helen Tierney finds out, I could lose my job.

MARGARET:
Well, we don’t want that. Whatever would you do?

MARGARET commandeers the keyboard, presses a single key. A rapid ‘blip-blip-blip -BEEEEP.’

ANNA reads her scrolling screen.

ANNA:
–Wait! These dates, these Renewals… –They’re in the future, is that right?

MARGARET:
It isn’t right. And yet: They are.

ANNA:
And you…

MARGARET:
I travel time. 5-3-oh–1-1-something-something –I think you’ll find. I wrote the book.

ANNA:
‘Margaret Bayer Rhys..’

MARGARET:
It’s ‘Reese.’ But yes: My pseudonym. 

ANNA:
It shows you’ve written scores of titles. This one is rare, it says.

MARGARET:
It only sold in limited editions.

ANNA:
That’s too bad. But Helen Tierney bought one. Buys one. So you said.

MARGARET:
She does/did. Tierney Hall is/will be named for her.

ANNA:
Your favorite of your own works, is it?

MARGARET:
My life’s work. Yes: my masterpiece.

ANNA:
Helen is here, if you’d like to see her.

MARGARET:
I don’t think that’s a good idea. Do you?

ANNA:
Perhaps not. 

MARGARET:
It fries all the computers. You get blamed. I’m sorry.

ANNA:
Yeah. I see that. Do I get to read the book?

MARGARET:
Oh, dear: You know the answer to that. 

ANNA:
Already. Yes. Of course. Because.. eventually…

ANNA:
//I write it.//

MARGARET:
//You write it,// yes.

Behind them, the computer snaps, crackles
and pops. Perhaps there is a puff of smoke.

ANNA:
What was the title?

MARGARET:
Oh, It’s gone now. I’ve completely lost it. You’ll just have to make one up.
Titles are hard, I know. But you get it right. You’ll have to trust me on that, Anna.

ANNA:
Why do I pick ‘Margaret Bayer Rhys’?

MARGARET:
You know.

ANNA:

‘Margaret’ for our mother. Is ‘Bayer’ …?’

MARGARET:
Yes. It is.

ANNA:
And Rhys?

MARGARET:
He’s father to your children.

ANNA:
We have kids? What, //You and me?//

MARGARET:
//You and me,// kid! Like we write books. We’re fairly prolific.

ANNA:
Is he nice?

MARGARET:
Who, David Rhys? He’s sweet. He predeceases you. Be nice to him. It isn’t easy.

ANNA:
You can’t tell me that! His name, his… You can’t just tell me! —no, no, no!

MARGARET:
I know. I’m not here to change that, Anna. I’m here to make it happen. To get you fired. So you write, and don’t pine in a library with your brilliant mind, okay? You come back to visit. It’s where you meet David. You bring your daughters.

ANNA:
I meet him here? I bring my daughters?

MARGARET:
Three of them. Completely different. Each unique.

ANNA:
I won’t remember any of it –will I?

MARGARET:
You live it, darling. Don’t be greedy. Be good to David. Don’t play favorites with the girls. Oh! …and Helen Tierney has to fire you, but stays your friend for life. You count on her. When things look dark. You make them name the auditorium for her.

ANNA:
Anything else?

MARGARET: (leaning in)
Oh yes.

MARGARET touches a device lightly to 
ANNA’s forehead. ANNA’s eyelids flutter.
There’s a ‘blip-blip-blip…’

(whispering:)

Don’t forget to return your books to the library.

LIGHTS FLUTTER.  ‘BEEEEEP.’ 

BLACKOUT.  END OF PLAY.