Silence.
Break it.
Camera shot, interior. Still shot. Pastic fruit in a wicker basket on a table. Too close, focus, slight jitter, cut-
The edge of a window pane, bottom left corner, only three angles, bulb of dried paint once white along right edge, and through the pane, out of focus, maybe a yellow slide, or shed, or flower. Slight jitter, cut-
The back of his head, at angle, as if we were ooking over his right shoulder, just the neck, the ear, the edge of his jaw. Just beyond, the outer edge of a mirror, the sound of water running from an unseen faucet. Hold, slight jitter, cut-
Full shot of her in a room sitting on a bed, curtains hiding the windows and the glare of a terrible sun. As if we were standing in the doorway, her arms wrapped around her bare knees in a loose tank top. Still the sound of water running, slight jitter. Cut-
Black. Water running.
Silence. Break it.

Silence.
Break it.
If you leave it here it will rot. She says, if you leave it here no one will care for it, certainly not me. Not me, she says. No, not me I will not care fit if you leave it here and it will go to waste, it will rot, it will become all wither and full of maggots and someone will have to clean it up but it won’t be me. No. If you leave it here be man enough to clean up your mess. No-
He says, no, I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough, thank you but I’m full. And instead they put more on his plate, they smile and insist and place their hands on his shoulders and lean their faces closer to his on each side and smile and coax and bring the plate closer underneath his chin and the table cloth is immaculate and his nails are pristine and their teeth are so very white and the glint of the fork catches the color of the room in such a way that he says, alright, alright, alright, just one more bite. No-
Silence. Break it.

silence. break it.
the ragamirole of his thoughts, spindly legs over rotted wood with floor boards peeling up where the nails were never driven and he had never been driven, only obsessed with details and the limits of what he could know and he wanted to know everything, everywhere, where did she go, whom did she speak with, how were her legs crossed and on and on it went until his father told him he was stupid.no-
Camera shot, exterior, dolly left. She comes into focus. She watches the door to the backyard, we watch her from behind watching the house, watching the door. Slowly pan out, children come into view, both on their knees, picking dandelions, laughing at weeds. Coming into view, top of the frame we see him in a window on the second floor, hand parting the curtains, mostly grey behind the screen. Watching her watching the door while we watch. Fade to black, children still laughing.

silence. break it.
she sits around and twiddles her thumbs. she sits around and twiddles her thumbs. she sits around and thinks of the affair and wonders if she ever smelled her off him, some rank smell that escaped her noticed but was there mocking her and sitting in her chair scratching her thumbs she wonders if she’s smelling it now as he comes through the door after the rain, sopping wet from her, no-
she doesn’t sit around. she doesn’t sit around waiting for him. he’s waiting for her. long days engrossed with the children, the house, the bills, the mortgage, the car he never drives because she’s always taking it to work and leaving him stranded with all this responsibility. it was sensible, he was sensible. they got by on her alone. her alone and they were getting by with him alone and the children alone and the stray cat that crossed the street in the lonely night looking for vermin, no-
silence. break it.