(Two characters, one lady, one man, sit outside on the porch behind their apartment. They have just come from the post office where, having made it there just before five o' clock, they discovered that their bathroom scale was wildly inaccurate, and that the large totes they had lugged into the post office from the truck did not weigh what they previously thought. The weight limit on shipping was seventy pounds; the final tote, the lightest tote on which any hope of success rested 'neath their sweaty hands, was seventy pounds, six ounces).
Lady: This sucks.
Man: Yes.
Lady: (takes a drag from her cigarette, takes a swig from her diet coke, sputters, manages not to spit up on herself) What if... what if we weren't moving.
Man: We are moving.
Lady: Yes.
Man: We're moving tomorrow. Like, tomorrow we have to be moved.
(pause. Man takes a drag from his cigarette).
Man: You know what's great about moving?
Lady: What? (takes another sip of soda)
Man: Nothing.
(Lady does spit up on self, just a little).
Lady: What if... what if instead of moving, we just had foursomes all the time?
Man: That's what we've been doing.
Lady: Yes, but...
Man: That's why... that's why today is... today.
Lady: So... so there's not some magical equation where we have lots of awesome sex and then the apartment is empty?
Man: Nope.
Lady: Okay...
Man: Wait!
Lady: Yes?! Yes?
(pause. Man thinks hard).
Man: (shakes his head) Nope. Thought I had it. Nope.
(long pause)
Lady: Yeah, okay.
(both look wistfully into the setting sun).
END
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