EMILY

by Elaine Romero

EMILY, AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL DRESSED IN JEANS, SITS IN A CAFÉ.

We’ve been sitting here in this crowded café. I can’t tell you if it’s been five minutes or an hour. We started right into it. Like we could trust each other. You’ve already convinced me that you’re my clone, except you have a…you know. You’ve been creeping next to me ever so slowly. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Our thighs are unofficially touching. (Beat.) You lift your hand. It hangs in the air. In suspended animation. Waiting to touch my knee. (Beat.)

 

You stop. Your hand drops. In your eyes I see your reluctance. It gives you away. Past failures. Heartbreaks hanging in the closet. You look me in the eye. Real precise. We swap souls for a second. You feel my fear. So, you feel better now. More relaxed. You move even closer. Our thighs are undeniably touching. (Beat.) And you’re making me laugh. I see a snapshot of us. Both in jeans. Thinking the same thoughts, feeling the same feelings. Why is it you won’t put your hand on my knee? (Short beat.) Ah, that’s nice. I should’ve thought of that myself. You’re playing with the hairs on my forearm. A delightful idea. Oh, no. You’re turning your hand over. Stroking my arm with the back of your hand. You catch my panic. You stop. I can breathe again. Back to the thigh. Good idea. Oh, no. You’re dangerously close to the hole in my jeans. You found it. Of course you did. The hole’s there for everybody to see. Strung together by a few threads in my jeans. Oh, no. You’re moving your fingers. I must tell you. You have beautiful, very intelligent fingers. Oh, God. They broke a thread. I refuse to look. I refuse to feel your hand on my knee. On my skin. Oh, don’t do that. Don’t lift your fingers up like that. I don’t even know you.

(Beat.) Why’d you stop? You withdrew your hand from the hole in my jeans. You patted the loose threads with your hand. Oh, no, don’t go. Let’s go back. To the innocence. Skin protected by lots of material. Then slowly, ever so slowly, start to move toward me, thigh pressing against thigh. And I’ll start to feel you breathe, and I’ll feel myself breathe. In sync with you. And we’ll talk. Simply at first. And then we’ll tell more. We’ll tell everything, you and me. And then, maybe, I’ll let you wander back to the hole in my jeans.