"At first, I was blaming all of them . . . as to say, why weren't they mesmerized by you."

My eyes flick off of the paper before it nudges across her neck and onto the edge of her collarbone.

I see a faint suggestion of a black sweater that matches the tone of her skin.

'Arctic' is the only word I can see behind the long fluff of an untimely coat.

"Then I was glad, shot with unbound happiness because I want you and I'm happy that those other men cannot see what I can see."

I dumbly check where I am standing to see how far I am off from her before my eyes spot the shine of her Converse. All Star pair. They are spotless, the result of keen pussy footing except for the side of her left sole which has been marked by a culprit speckle of dirt.

"What have you done?"

She mumbles the word, not a question but more of an invitation as I step forward.

On cue.

I can see Ms. Eden's reddened mouth in anticipation where no smiles are visible.

Her lips purse in anticipation.

"What I should have done a long time ago."

There's the snicker of a naughty smile from the background which vibrates in the scenery before Ms. Eden tilts her head in an aggressive axis.

"Oh . . . Warren."

"Don't--don't fight it."

I track her left hand like a heat seeking missile. It hesitates to add climax but does not wait around to request awkwardness before the black painted nails latch onto the side of my head.

Her grip does not slip from me and rejects to even wither as she draws closer to my person.

I can imagine a thermostat of myself, if I were a house, then the needle would be spiked at the hottest meter possible before the glass breaks like a last beat of a drum.

Her fingers produce a tingling sensation on my shoulder even though her index finger is slowly running through my hair where the large drips of the Olive Oil transformed my strands to ice.

Her eyes shoot a confused glare at me.

Half excited, half in act.

From the corner of my eye, I can see the blurred silhouette of Ms. Eden mouthing the dual words with the appropriate emotion.

"Say when."

I say as she draws even nearer to the point where the spotty Converse disappears as the embroiled 'Arctic Fox' comes into view from the curve of her fluff coat.

I do not close my eyes. I want to see it happen.

The brown shade of her nose bridge encloses, like a speeding truck towards my petrified posture.

This is that one silent moment before the collision takes place, before the bumpers of both trucks are diminished to rubbles, popped air bags, sore necks and bloody foreheads with scratched waist from tightened seatbelts.

This is the kind of accidents you let happen.

The shade of her cheeks turns brighter as her head angles towards the side.

She lacks of commitment issues whilst my mouth is agape, as if I'm waiting for the pill to fall but the hand that will provide the medication has decided not to.

"Alright, cut!"

I do not swivel my head around like a thief but my eyes flares around to Ms. Eden as she departs from the desk and flips through the Screenplay catalog till ACT 2 flashes with the help of a desk lamp.

I don't realize that we are not finishing ACT 1 to its full potential, especially at the part where the protagonist, Warren Heid finally aligns his lips with his fellow, his girl, Bernadette.

I am in Warren's skin. Gracie is in Bernadette's coat.

"Warren!" Ms. Eden calls me as her hands fall into the action of putting on a hat and balancing the rest of the papers in the clutch of her arms.

"Warren. In place." She nudges me with her words once again when I revive the feeling in my hand which is comfortably placed on the collars of the Fluff coat on Bernadette.

Her hands have slipped down to mine.

I can imagine my face like a flabbergasted captain who has spotted an enemy ship which is much bigger and stronger in proportion and armory. Instead of his anxious eyes that prods the optic of the telescope, my face is curved with chapped lips; like I often see my mother do when the Red Lipstick Tube balances between her fingers like a cigarette.

"Separate. "

"Oh."

I exhaust as I step back. I can feel myself losing heat, to the point where the thermostat meter drops to a level which can only mean Embarrassment.

"Yeah . . separate. Yes. . of course."

Ms. Eden's fidgeting stops in its tracks as her mouth stays jar in a curve where the sides of her cheeks threatens to become red.

Simultaneously, I pray that she hasn't thought of me in that way and also cannot scurry away from the hope that she understood the abstract yearn.

"Gracie. Sit back and watch. And . . who's Scotty B again? Oh ya . . Bishop, you're Scott and you're mostly furniture and pedestrian talks."

I hide in the act of reading the entry of 'ACT 2' as my eyes follows the speckled Converse to the front row benches and rests beside a pair of out of fashion running shoes.

The runner soles shakes like a car engine before the girly squeal produces itself from the upside of the desk where Gracie and the girl who has played 'The Postman' engage in whispering simpers.

I let my eyes meet with hers whilst a half crooked smile appears on her face before she slightly waves with her right hand.

There's a leftover glace of a romantically involved olive oil stain on her index finger, slithering to her palm that can only send the unspoken words of invitation.

My body is riddled with hormones, timely chemical reactions in the blood are currently taking place without a stop.

I will never doubt the existence of the word 'Goose Bumps '.

"Act 2. Okay. Warren Heid is seen in the middle of the lounge, concentrating on writing a News Article for the 20th. Warren then will continue to . . . Frey! Concentrate!"

Ms. Eden has transformed into a masculine figure or tried her best as the hat is succeeding at hiding her bundle of hair, the coat is having trouble cooperating with her white shirt. Her worn Gabardine is replaced by a black Classic that is hanging uncomfortably.

"Warren Heid and Scotty B, the cook of the town house will chat a bit about the weather before Brady Crove and Arthur steps in for the confrontation."

I look up at the same time of Ms. Eden and search out for nods of confirmation or confused dispositions of questions. But the rows of 6 bowed heads prods a smile on her face as she donates a proud glare at me, the glimmer of smile making her lips look uneven and her cheeks extra crimson than the slight touch up of makeup.

I can tell that we are sharing a moment because Bishop's dull question whisks her back to reality with a buzz.

"So, um . . if you can repeat . . who's playing who again?"

"Yeah, you're playing Scott, Gotfrey's doing Heid, I'm Brady and Chris's in Arthur's shoes."

"Oh . . okay then. Gotfrey . . if you want to . . sit down at um . . what does it say? The middle of the lounge."

I smile at the bunch of teens that are looking either quite excited or concentrated under the fluorescent tube lights of Blue Ridge.

For the sake of creativity and Screenplay to flow through everyone's body, Ms. Eden has killed the clock overhead.

It is stuck at 4:03 of a Wednesday afternoon. In a certain angle, with the assistance of the tube lights, I will be able to spot the oily finger prints on the frontal glass.

I was involved as an accomplice.

I exchange my lines a few times with Bishop who's mumbling appears and exists like tremors in a Parkinson's patient.

At his bouts of social anxiety and stage frights, his sentences start with a 'Subordinating Clause' and most of the time, his favored conjunction is "If you can".

By good will and praise, I have been assured by the rest of the 7 attenders and close friends of Bishop that, a little stage fright and mumbling disorders are the best signatures of a concentrated performance.

I have accepted their words at being in school plays when they also approved of the violent shake of my knees.

I position Bishop away from the windows and towards the teacher's desk so that Gracie and her friend with long hair and meaty forearms will not be the cause of my distraction.

I have seen the dazzle of pride, of accomplishment in Ms. Eden's eyes, a familiar sight of my mother when she finishes her quota of the week before Thursday since she uses Thursday as a day for a Dreamscape, staring at the Telly or the back garden but thinking of something entirely exciting with her hollow gaze.

I do not want to let Ms. Eden down and the prime cause can be explained easily by a word which I'm afraid of thinking.

"I think I'll have to . . wear that oversized coat again, don't I?"

I crack the joke to ease the air for Bishop to breath in.

To have what I want, Bishop and I have to work as a team.

This is a very selfless way of earning something selfish.

"That thing gets hot indoors in a second. Trust me, I had enough on Act 1, part 3."

"Um . . if you can . . then, maybe ask Ms. Eden to not wear it then?"

"No, it's fine. It's not that hot anyway. So, shall we get on with . . the?"

I lean away from Bishop's overly white script page that cannot compete with my bleeding and folded papers where the punch lines have been underlined, words have been circled for the sake of emphasis.

According to routine, the red marker of my pencil holder was supposed to mark words like 'Elevation in population', 'Square footage', 'Population is not the problem'.

I broke routine. Mainly because the last thing I needed to celebrate Wednesday as a day for my mental breakdown is a stuffed classroom full of statistics mouthed teenagers of The Prime Directive debate club.

Bishop starts a line, breaks of due to the sudden entry of stutter, dives back into act and up again. My disposition is set to support where the pair of approving eyes are accompanied by a light simper.

I don't even notice Arthur, who is known as Chris in reality before the blur of a strawberry blonde whizzes past Bishop and back to his original place. I swivel to catch a look of Ms. Eden's face where the anxiety is threatening to become a settler.

I do not get enough time to calculate the scent of the situation since Ms. Eden's confident coughs and gestures set everyone in their appointed place.

I try to identity the person who's helping me from behind to latch the floppy collars onto my neck. He or she does not initiate contact on my skin. There are no confident caress of olive oil.

The lone chair that sits to a distance of 4 feet is roleplaying as a door.

Scotty B enters with an arched back.

"Oh, Mr. Heid. I didn't even notice you were in the house."

"Scott. Scott, there you are! I'm just working on some letters from home . . and . . and you wouldn't mind making a pot of coffee, would you? Don't worry, I won't be troubling you tonight because I have a diner invitation at 8."

The bracketed line paints an image of Warren Heid. My marker has bleed on 'Aloof' and 'Nonchalantly excited'.

I follow suit, harassing the sides of my hair and bite the edge of the pencil. To add authenticity to the act, I think of Argentina and all the information I have forgotten about it.

"Hmm, 8, you say, Mr. Heid? Well, it's almost 7 and for the sake of your health, I don't think you should drink a pot of coffee before dinnertime."

The light chuckle from the audience rolls in the necessary morale.

"What do you mean, 7? What . . . what do you mean, dinnertime?"

"Well, Mr. Heid. I'm not a man of science or education like you. I'm just a cook but if you open those close blinds, you can see the streetlights are on. And the sun is gone."

Bishop is playing it safe since he does not pause timely enough to poke and add the appropriate level of sarcasm to his insults. But the writing is camouflaging his shortcomings.

There's no way anyone can criticize the essence of ridicule towards Warren.

"It's 7?" I mumble as if my lips are not in my control.

Warren Heid is like my mother when she feels nothing but passion and hears the constant bickering of the typewriter.

I am quite acquainted with the scenery.

"Almost."

Everyone divers their gazes back to the script where 7 dongs of the grandfather clock in the town house answers the question.

I wait for the nod of approval from Ms. Eden and she refuses to waste a moment as she shakes her head.

"Oh no, Scott. I am late. I am late! What should I get her? . . . At this hour? . . . How did it even get to 7 this quickly?"

"[At this moment, with the remaining echo of the clock, the front door opens with muffled footsteps entering the lounge. Scott B wipes the remaining soot of the coal oil on his apron when Brady Crove leads the entry of the two men. We can see Arthur's aggravated posture with his reddened face.]"

Rudy bellows the description of the scenery with his clear voice as he fixes his glass. His face is as blank as the chalkboard.

He is the faceless narrator in the Play who is indifferent to all emotions, cries, tings of excitement.

Like a God behind the curtain.

"I told you we would find him here."

Arthur, the blonde kid Chris crosses the threshold of the desk where Ms. Eden accompanies him.

His cheeks are as aggravated as the characterized words.

I cannot help but feel intimidated as the appreciation loses steam.

"Let me take it from here, Arthur."

Ms. Eden waltz to the front of the desk, as a symbolism for taking the lead.

"Mr. Warren Heid, I'm Brady Crove. In any other time, I would shake your hand and discuss out mutual agreement over a cup of coffee and few cigarettes. But I'm afraid, that time is not today."

"[Warren Heid looks flabbergasted at first since he still does no--"

Ms. Eden slashes her hand in the air which may be the usual impending sign of cutting the narrator off as Rudy mumbles the word "briefcase" before lowering his voice.

She's too deep into the inky words on the A4 size to differ fiction from reality.

I sink myself in without the clutch of double thought.

She must see myself in the same depth as her or deeper to be impressed.

I am not acquainted with the word "Failure" or "Acceptable".

"Mr. Crove? Yes, yes. I would like to have a long chat with you soon but I'm expected somewhere soon and she does not like to wait, you see. So, do excuse me. . . Scott."

[Scotty B slowly steps towards the couch where a scattered bundle of the newspaper has conquered the sofa and hidden the leather side bag in the process. He does not take his eyes off Brady Crove who's a man in mid 30; straightened back, arrogant face, strained cheeks and a head full of unarguable facts.]

I start to lose my grip on the scenery as the fluorescent light increases in volume because the sun is on her dive back to the sea. There's the buzzing sound of a truck's engine that clunks on the road beside the building for an unforeseen speed bump in place.

My mind is losing the effect of imagination. I tighten my clasp on the page, creating old people's wrinkles on the border of the script.

My physique is as desperate to latch onto fiction as my mind.

"I'm sorry to suggest this, Mr. Heid but you may have to cancel the dinner plans. We have important business to attend to and as a matter of fact, it is something that will interest both of us"

There is no doubt that she knows every word, every drop of a crisp pronunciation of the lines, by heart. I try not to feel too intimidated since the possibility to stay at her depth of persona is losing height like an inflated balloon.

"And, I suggest that you should make haste. There's no time to lose. Especially where we are going."

She might as well be a man as the voice loses its sense of sexuality.

There's no more Ms. Eden because all I can see is Brady Crove who's too beautiful to be a man with accompanied womanly anatomy.

"I . . . I don't understand."

I bring down my gaze to the wide lettering of the play. Momentarily, I blame Bishop, who's playing the role of an uneducated, sassy cook at the moment, mainly because his mumbling prose stopped me earlier from painting the black and white with red.

The sound of a car coming alive with its vital bleep passes through the stationary air of the classroom without a fight because everyone has slumped down to catch the remaining part of Act 1.

Except for Ms. Eden since her black satire pants shine under the fluorescent with devoted arrogance.

She's a God who's currently dulled by the entrance of her description of the scene.

[The quiet moment between the four men does not stay for long as Brady Crove ushers Mr. Heid once again to join him, supported by Arthur who speaks for the first time in the running conversation. But not before Scott B. crosses the common line of courtesy.]

"Mr. Heid. Please."

If anyone saw Ms. Eden's smile as her lips cocked to the side, with just enough glimmer of teeth, looking manic, she would be definitely referred to a psychiatrist; followed by the admittance form to a mental ward.

Even though my character, Warren Heid should look confused and upset, from missing a romanticized night with Bernedatte, I break the bounds of fiction with a sly simper to inform Ms. Eden that I am beyond impressed.

"You should hurry up. Time's only for the living."

Her jacket swishes to as her pocket births a slip of paper.

[Mr. Heid looks down upon the piece of paper where the distinct handwriting with nonchalantly threatening words are etched upon on the back of a Cheese yellow telegram. It will display tow sentences in only one line.]

"We have the book. Make haste, if you don't want to be fish food in Seine."

My Red Marker's need is substituted since the description holds the word "Terrified" and "Breathless" in bold, capital fonts.

My body is completely riddled by adrenaline.

I calm myself down with a peak at Ms. Eden's slip of paper which has no value other than imitation.

The blue colored paper are shopping tags of Aviation Thrift Shop.

In the shopping receipt, the sight of "2 Slick Jacket, 1 navy coat and a pair of Satstone Special" that only cost no more than 27.49, calms me down.

"Um . . . if you can . . I mean, Mr. Heid. . don' you think it's too late to go out, anyway? I mean, these . . days. . there's no safety . . of a man without a friend."

Scott B. is a great judge of character, with distinct expressions that reveal the important emotion of the scenery. I can spot the little beads of sweats which have decided to make an entrance.

Teamwork is a Sack Race.

Bishop is a professional athlete who has majored in tumbling every 7 lines.

"Oh, don't worry about that. We are not driving far. And, more importantly, there's no place for your kind among us."

[Scott B. and Warren Heid exchanges a string of glances before Brady Crove gestures to the door and Scott B. makes his re entry to the scene with Warren Heid's leather bag.]

"Here you go, Mr. Heid. Don't want you to forget them important looking papers, ain't I right?"

The narration on the paper suggests Scott B. to pat on Heid's shoulder from behind, as a boost of confidence as well as letting him feel the side pocket of the Leather bag where the silhouette of a cheap revolver is resting obscurely.

My oversized coat feels the sweaty palm of Bishop and hears the girly snicker from the audience as he pats in multiple beats to establish the end of the scene.

I feel the least climactic, both physically and mentally as he wraps my shoulder with an invisible string that is roleplaying as a bag.

"Be back in time for dinner, Mr. Heid. Marion shot those ducks in the morning and I have just got them shells and cleaned the gunpowder. It's going to be a hot. . spicy meal."

"There's no need for that, cook. We'll keep him well busy for tonight."

I know I am standing on herbal paste colored floors of a Grammar school on Wednesday evening since the power of Arthur's voice has the lethal potential of dragging people from heaven back to the mourning reality of life.

I can see the coat is truly oversized and there is no gun pressing against the side seam of the brown colored bag.

I am departing out of fiction to reality.

"Now, onto business."

Flabbergasted is the word which describes my state when Rudy is reassigned to his role as the "Faceless Narrator".

"And Cut!"