index | archives | notes | reviews | FAQ Wednesday, May. 26, 2004 | 3:13 p.m. [Fade to Black] I prop my backpack up on a chair to find my book more easily. Inside of the book, there is a bookmark, and on the bookmark I have written page numbers and books for monologues I am interested in performing. From the corner to my right I hear rustling; he is going through his backpack too. A pencil is nonchalantly dropped on the desk. It is a cheap bic mechanical pencil; the eraser is gone and the clip is a sick blue green hybrid; the black ink has faded off from months of hard use as my drawing pencil. I pause, then turn to look at him with a quizzical expression. "You did not have to return it." "I found it." I continue rummaging through my backpack. "Keep it." Pause. A shrug and a smile from him; for a moment I see the boy I loved. "You said you wanted it back." The boy I loved disappears, and I begin to walk away. "I said a lot of things." The pencil is still on the desk and Exit - Stage Left and congratulations Amanda, you're still a fuck up. << | N | >> whatiscopyright.org