Wendy Moten writes in a notebook as she sits on a chair. Wearing a turban, she runs her hand on a rain-streaked window.
She sits on her chair in her living room during the evening. Wearing a black dress, she sings while a royal blue sheet sways behind her. A pocket watch lies in mud. A porcelain doll breaks. A doll’s face lies on the ground. She sings against a charcoal background.
A flame burns. The doll’s arm moves. The broken pieces fly in the air as it fixes itself. She continues to sing with the royal blue sheet behind her.
Wendy Moten scratches out the entire sentence. She wasn’t sure how to articulate her thoughts. The letter could at least start a conversation. She slips it in the mail and hopes for a phone call. Although she could call him, it wasn’t likely he wanted to talk. He was right to need his space. She wouldn’t want to talk her right now, either.
Running into her ex-boyfriend had turned into a dinner and a sleepover. It became numerous lies, most she couldn’t even remember. She had used with frequency was that she was meeting with co-workers after work. Her boyfriend told her he supported her career and knew it was important to her that she got a promotion someday.
She had made the mistake of telling her boyfriend she was going to dinner with a good friend at the new restaurant. He had seen her kissing her ex while they ate on the patio. She saw him and put her head in her hands. She ended it with her ex-boyfriend that night. The guilt had gotten to her.
While sitting on her chair, she reads a book. The phone rings. It’s her boyfriend. He says he says he’s willing to talk but can’t guarantee anything. She says that’s fine for her. He asks her to meet him for coffee at their favorite spot over the weekend. She says she’ll see him at around noon. He was firm on the phone, which was a different tone for him. She hangs up the phone and stares at the book in her lap.
Director: N/A Year: 1992