AN IMBALANCE OF PINEAPPLE, IN ONE ACT KIM BROCKETT STAMMEN
Jerome: vague sense of missing out. Peg: with a little wand. Behind halfopen bathroom door, pulling down one moist lower eyelid with a powder bluenailed middle finger. Jerome bumping the door as he passes on the way to their bedroom, causing her hand to jerk, eyeliner to smear down rouged cheek and her throat to exclaim: YOU ARE TAKING UP ALL MY SELF-CONTROL LATELY. Time together: four months. Cockatoo yellow paint barely dry on the apartment's entryway walls.
thought that these always came in pairs, like salt and pepper shakers. “Sold as a set.” Together both the antithesis and the goal, sentinel together on the audience edge of his life, with matching worried expressions. Jerome:
DITTO.
The doorbell: ringing. Behind it: Marchelle. Hand on knob, mouth falling open at the same time as the door: Jerome.
Marchelle: about whom Jerome was thinking when he sideswiped the bathroom door. Her ass, monumental. Her soul, bounding up down in tandem with his. If he took over the lease, she could move out and she, in. Possibly without even telling one about the other. With him could be her instead of her. This would make all the difference.
Behind him: Peg, one pea-green earring dangling from an ear, the other between her fingers like a doubtful hors d’oeurves.
Parents: when he was a boy Jerome had
Marchelle (to Peg, totally ignoring Jerome):
26 | LITRO
The Earth: swaying under Jerome’s loafers. Peg (to Marchelle): YOU'RE HERE FOR THE PINEAPPLE.
