Jose Brightside

Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ‘til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that—everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been. V

SCENE ONE.
(The scene starts outside of an antique shop, Del’s Antiques. The time is 11:45 a.m. The date is March 27, 2012. Housewives with strollers pass by, dogs inside instead of children. Jose and Kelly are pretty baked.)

Del: (Sitting behind a huge wooden desk, there is not much color to her navy pant suit, except for the Hermes scarf around her neck, which has some yellow and red. She’s well over the age of 60. Her make-up is simple, dark eyeshadow, maroon lipstick. Her hair looks freshly highlighted.) Who is this you have with you, Kelly?

Del: I used to do most of the buying, but I can’t move around very easily anymore. My son buys now. He goes to Europe and that’s where I get most of my stuff. What’s for lunch today?

Kelly: Today I was able to get a good amount of veggies. Let’s see. (Kelly pulls out the lunch from a cooler on wheels.) There’s an avocado, some green beans, cucumber, broccoli, mushrooms… (Del throws out a complaint about how thickly cut the mushrooms are sometimes.) …black olives, and a balsamic vinaigrette.

Del: Looks delicious, did you bring my chips?

(More to come.)

I write a sentence a day. That’s a paragraph a week. In a month a page. And in some years, my play.

I delete every word because none of them make sense.

I search.

I never wanted to know the truth about anything; now I must know the truth about everything.

I don’t mean to be this way. I/just/am.

At times I can’t concentrate. The life I want slips through my fingers. I often feel sorry for myself, and on some days I don’t move forward. I suppose I need those days.

(I use blame as my favorite weapon, but there’s no need for weapons here.)

Because I’m just a phase. A glimpse of what you used to be. I struggle not become you. I am you. We are tied, we have tried, we are tired.