The Other Day (c) 2009
an original play by Mark Jason Williams
Mark (late 30's) and Santo (late 20's) are moving into their new apartment. They move around furniture as they talk.
SANTO: Place is really coming a long, huh?
MARK: I don't know about these floors...
SANTO: They're fine.
MARK: There's a lot of cracks.
SANTO: You can hardly notice them.
MARK: Look, here's another. And another. Too many cracks..
SANTO:Who cares about shit like that?
MARK: want everything to be perfect.
SANTO: Well, it's not going to be. You really need to get over this white picket fence fantasy of yours.
MARK: You're right. Pink picket fences would be so much cooler.
SANTO: Tell me again why we're moving in together.
MARK:Because...the butterflies haven't turned into moths yet.
Santo smiles, sits down beside him, He rubs Marks shoulder.
SANTO: I think you better lay off the Chlorox for a while.
MARK: Can't. Too much work to be done. Well, don't just sit there, grab one of those rags and start scrubbing.
SANTO:I'd rather be doing something else.
Santo gives Mark a soft kiss on the cheek. Mark pulls away.
MARK:These floors aren't going to clean themselves. Now grab a fucking--
SANTO: Marky, calm down. I'll help. On one condition.
MARK: (impatiently) What?
SANTO: We make a mess before we clean.
Santo slides his hands under Mark's shirt.
MARK:(laughing) Santo, I swear to God...
SANTO: You don't believe in God...
MARK: We've been here a week already and this place still looks like shit.
SANTO: Not with you standing in it.
MARK:Shut up. You're making my stomach hurt.
SANTO: Wow. You really know how to sweet-talk a guy.
MARK: Do you think we're making the right decision? I mean, are we really ready to live together...after only six months?
SANTO: Would you rather still be living with your mother?
MARK: At least she helps clean the house.
SANTO: Mark, I love you. So much that I want your face to be the first one I see in the morning, and the last thing I see at night.
MARK: You sound like a greeting card.
SANTO: And you sound like a confused little boy.
MARK: I just want us to be sure.
SaNTO: Sweetie, for us to be sure, you have to be sure.
MARK: You still have the butterflies, right?
SANTO: You writers and your fucking symbolism. What the hell are you talking about?
MARK:You know...the butterflies...the tickling in your stomach you get when you really love someone...
SANTO: You're measuring our love by insects? You are such a nerd. (beat) And yes, I have the God-damn butterflies.
MARK: I had them from the first day I met you. I'm just worried that one day, the butterflies will turn to moths.
SANTO: What does that even mean? Instead of tickling my stomach, you'll eat my clothes?
MARK:No, no, no. Instead of tickling your insides, I'll be someone who just eats away at you.
SANTO:So, now you're a cannibal? That's really gross, Mark.
MARK:Santo, would you just use your fucking imagination and go with this?
SANTO:If it'll get you to shut up and come to bed.
MARK: We don't even have a bed yet.
SANTO: Mark, would you just use your fucking imagination and go with this?
A beat. Santo takes the rag, throws it to the floor, then takes Mark's hand in his. They exit off stage together.