"I can't go any further, I'm done," he announced on wobbly legs that were quickly succumbing to the gravity of his overstuffed backpack. Like a severed marionette, Malcolm crumbled to the ground in slow motion while cursing the summer storm, "The indignity!" He lay motionless on the damp forest floor comforted by the scent of pine as he looked skyward, extending his tongue to catch a bit of rain, hypnotized by a swarm of mosquitoes contemplating his fate.

She turned around to observe Malcolm at 'I can't go any further' while searching for a peanut butter chocolate bar buried deep in the pocket of her cargo shorts, because she knew his performance would take a minute. Tiffany believed the end of Act II should sizzle with a dramatic ambiguity that aroused the audience, sending them scampering to the loo during the interval, anxious to savor the climactic denouement of Act III from the red velvet comforts of the orchestra section. Alas, she was the last one standing in this theatre of mud, all alone in the cheap seats accompanied only by the actor (her husband), who had obviously surrendered his motivation. She figured this was her cue, so she spoke from the heart, "Seriously? We're like 15 minutes away."

"How dare you."

"Just an hour ago, we were right down there,” she gestured with an open palm towards a placid field nestled in the folds of a hillside. “In the meadow, yes? Which is where we staged the theatrical ending of Act I, do you recall?”

“Perhaps.”

“I remember it clearly, my love. The first act was written, and rightfully so, performed, with aplomb. Well done.”

“You’re too kind.”

“However, this …” (wagging her finger at his immobile pile of tragic mess) “second act is simply: redundant. You insist on rehashing your despair. Tell me how. Tell me how we’ve progressed the narrative from Act I to Act II, my darling? Or should I say, how dare us, for being idle and superfluous."

“Touché.”

Tiffany paused with a playful smile while taking a significant bite out of her travel snack. "Why would an audience gleefully dash to the restroom if there was nothing fresh to look forward to in Act III?”

“Possibly for a smoke, or?”

“Honestly, I think everyone is in their car right now, Malcolm. They walked blindly past the amenities and they’re heading home; a determined beeline straight to the liquor cabinet, shuffling about in their house slippers, searching for that—Miles Davis. Because you know why? We’ve bored their sweet twinkies off, hun. Now get your ass up, we’ve got work to do."

Epilogue

They arrived at their cabin in the woods fifteen minutes later, on budget, and on schedule. After removing their backpacks and making a cozy fire, Tiffany and Malcolm reviewed the particulars of their two-person play which was calendared for an autumn premiere at the Aretha Franklin Theatre on Broadway. They shared a kettle of chamomile and lavender made with organic herbs from their humble garden in Brooklyn.

⌘