Act 1, Scene 1
JENNA and LIZ are sitting at the kitchen table. It is Thursday, their day off. They both have lattes in front of them and JENNA’s homemade cookies are in a dish between them. It is quiet.
JENNA I don’t know how to tell him —if I should tell him. Physically, he’s a crime. Mentally, I can do whatever I want with him. Not in that way, I know what you’re thinking. I don’t want a lover or anything like that. Really. I’m happy. It’s just that when I look at his paintings, I can feel them dancing inside me. Picture this. I’m at the gallery on Friday. He is giving a talk about his newest addition. The one with yellow oils. He’s brilliant. He analyzes the world like a poem. He’s looking all around his room at his audience, his eyes shifting from person to person and he locks eyes with me. He doesn’t look away. I stop breathing. He’s killing me. All I want to do is stare right into his mind. And he’s still talking and staring and I’m staring back. It’s like were the only two people in the room, only were not. And when I can finally breathe again, I realize something. (to Liz) Don’t laugh. I think his painting is about me. I don’t know him too well. I’ve only spoken with him a couple of times. One night it was just him and I closing the gallery. I had on a pale yellow dress and we hardly spoke all day, but before he left he looked at me and said “I like pastels”. I thought he meant the art crayon. I’m like “Me, too”. I didn’t know what else to say. But that wasn’t it at all. He was talking about the colour, Liz. He painted my dress. How do you tell somebody that you know you’re their muse? It’s bizarre isn’t it? It’s eating me alive. I go to bed at night and I see her...me ...the painting. I sometimes put on my dress and I dream of posing in it for him as he paints me. His genius hands stroking the brush, while I do pirouettes for him. It’s art adultery. (pausing) I wrote him a letter. I love Peter, but I can’t control my thoughts. We’re upstairs the other night and he has his classical music playing; I’m drifting off to sleep on his chest and I’m thinking to myself: “see Jen, he’s all you need”. And just before I fall asleep, I see the dress. It lulls me off to sleep. She gets up and walks towards the door. I need to mail this letter. You can’t breathe a word of this. Please. She opens the door to find Peter just getting home, flowers in hand.
Peter. You didn’t have to come home early for me. Wow, I can’t believe it’s the eighth already. Thank you, baby.
Kissing him, she takes letter behind her back, rips it, and lets it fall on the floor to pieces.