How to Stay Friends

Spotlight down left, fade in from black.

There’s a woman standing at a podium, down left. She’s wearing comfortable clothes, nothing that’s too fancy, but could probably be called business casual. She might have notecards or a script, something to make it evident that she has prepared for this presentation, like an official speech. Her voice shakes as she gives her first lines, but she gains strength throughout her delivery.

PRESENTER:

Go to dinner.

Stage lights fade in from black. They should be a comfortable, warm white. A backing track of crowd noise fades in from silence. A restaurant booth sits at center stage. The rest of the stage is empty. MINERVA enters, wearing an orange dress and a jacket. It should be evident that this woman and the PRESENTER are the same person, through the way their hair is done or a similar indicator. She is collected, but looks around as if she’s waiting for someone as she takes her seat. A WAITER passes from stage left to bring two glasses of water, two menus, and a drink menu, exiting stage right. The woman holds her glass, fidgeting with the cup, but does not drink or look at the menus.

PRESENTER:

Do not go to a coffee shop. Coffee shops are where wilting friendships enter hospice and die pathetic deaths. Go to dinner. She likes Thai. Arrive in your orange dress at that semi-classy place in the Village where you used to go on dates. Be ten minutes late. She is not there. Get a table and order the second-cheapest bottle of wine, as always was the routine.

The WAITER enters stage right to check on MINERVA, and they have a brief exchange. The WAITER exits stage left. MINERVA continues to fidget, still not reading the menu. She is waiting for someone, and losing the calm she previously held in their absence.

EX-GIRLFRIEND enters stage left with an expression that could be called pained. She is wearing a pencil skirt, a blouse, and purple glasses. When she sees MINERVA, her face turns into a rather forced smile.

PRESENTER:

Stand and hug her when she comes in a pencil skirt and new purple glasses and what you swear are smaller bags under her eyes. Remember she works in a design house now. You love her outfit, and you say …

MINERVA:

I love your outfit!

PRESENTER:

Her palms will go on the sides of her blouse and she will scan you up and down like a bookshelf. 

The EX-GIRLFRIEND follows the narration.

Hold still. When she says…

EX-GIRLFRIEND:

Not looking too bad yourself, lady!

PRESENTER:

Blush. Sit down. It’s been six months.

The two women seat themselves, and the EX-GIRLFRIEND takes a drink of her water as she opens the previously untouched menu. MINERVA follows her example, picking up the menu, but forgetting to open it.

EX-GIRLFRIEND:

What do you always get here again?

MINERVA:

Pad se yew. I don’t even know what other kind of Thai food exists.

PRESENTER:

Do not remember what she gets either; it is pleasant equal emotional footing. Emphatically set your unopened menu on the side. Two men seated a foot to your right are complaining. There has been, they say,

A voiceover of two men accompanies the PRESENTER.

A summer re-emergence of whores in the neighborhood.

Voiceover ends. MINERVA and EX-GIRLFRIEND follow the narration.

One of them snorts loudly enough to sound like he’s beatboxing. Cross your eyes and mimic wiping tears. She will laugh—it sounds the same as ever, short and soft, flowering and lusty; if pouring cream into coffee made a noise it would be her laugh—and she will tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. When the waiter comes with the wine, all of you will be confused as to who is going to sample it. When you glance at the menu before the waiter takes it you’ll remember she always ordered curries.

MINERVA and EX-GIRLFRIEND sit quietly, waiting for the WAITER to return with their dinner. The crowd noise slowly fades to silent. We sit for a moment in this discomfort. The PRESENTER senses this, but allows us to remain in silence, as if she knows that we need to experience being uncomfortable. This pause is brief, as the WAITER quickly returns from stage left to deliver their food, exiting stage right. The crowd noise strengthens to its previous volume. The PRESENTER returns to her narration even stronger than she was previously.

PRESENTER:

When the silences hit, talk about your work, the huge renovated bookstore in Park Slope with the NO STRAND BAGS ALLOWED sign in the window.

MINERVA’s phone buzzes once, twice. The EX-GIRLFRIEND looks inquisitive, but doesn’t say anything. MINERVA silences her phone. The PRESENTER turns at the noise to see MINERVA turn her phone off, and realization dawns. When the PRESENTER continues, she is more distressed, but still speaks with conviction.

Leave out the anonymous missed connections ads popping up for you on craigslist in the m4t section, always a headline that misspells your name: Blonde shemale Minurva bookstore babe and which continuously grow in content. Last month it was a marriage proposal, this month a threat to eliminate other potential boyfriends. Talk about hilarious co-workers instead. A forty-year-old shelver with a square beard-mustache brings weird-ass foreign snacks to share every day.

MINERVA:

So haggis-flavored pita chips are a thing, by the way. He’ll come up on the floor and shove them in everyone’s face, “Have a sheep gut Minerva come on I got ‘em on sale don’t be such a fucking American, huh?”

PRESENTER:

Imitate the cheerful-yet-resentful lurch his upper body makes as he walks around the store. You are great at these kinds of theatrics. She laughs and her purple glasses nudge down her nose. She will say you still got the funnies. Don’t ask what this means. The men beside you share a kiss.

The voiceover of the two men return over the crowd noise, this time in wholesome laughter, as if they are truly happy. MINERVA looks surreptitiously at the EX-GIRLFRIEND, as if checking to see whether she noticed the two men. The WAITER brings a second bottle of wine to the table, though the first is not yet empty, and completely untouched by MINERVA. Noticing this, the EX-GIRLFRIEND pours her the remainder of the bottle, opening the second to refill her own glass, from which she drinks heavily. MINERVA quietly watches this happen.

PRESENTER:

Her hair’s no longer chin-length short but it’s still colored black. Her eyes are still sunken and her nails are still eggshell white. When she messes up on pronouns on the second bottle of wine, correct her only a few times. Be bashful and apologetic when you do.

The PRESENTER glances back at MINERVA, and her voice breaks. She quickly recovers and continues.

Don’t sound sad or exasperated. Don’t feel sad or exasperated. In a voice reserved for teaching intelligent sixteen-year-olds, she will say…

EX-GIRLFRIEND:

You have to understand, it’s hard and it takes time. I really am trying. It’s just a reality, it’s very difficult for me.

MINERVA winces, but recovers quickly, adopting a somewhat forced smile.

PRESENTER:

Listen empathetically and flawlessly. Be grateful she’s expressing her feelings so honestly. Smile sadly (this is important) and say…

MINERVA:

I know, I’m sorry.

MINERVA, for the first time, takes a drink from her glass. The PRESENTER talks more informally now, like this is more of an improvisation than her rehearsed speech. MINERVA and the EX-GIRLFRIEND pantomime speaking in the background now. MINERVA looks increasingly uncomfortable as the EX-GIRLFRIEND continues drinking and becoming more emphatic in her conversation.

PRESENTER:

And take a sip of wine. Let the next few slips go by. Don’t escalate and don’t be a nuisance. It’s like letting a dad drop some f-bombs without shaking the swear jar, like not confronting your drunk roommate when he doesn’t flush a shit. Wait. Swear jar. A pronoun jar! You could rattle it and say, “Quarter!” and flash a winsome goofy smile. People would dig in their pockets and say…

MINERVA pauses to break the fourth wall, joining the PRESENTER in saying this line.

Boy, he’s a — she, sorry! Haha! She’s a hoot!

MINERVA returns to her pantomime.

And everyone would think it was funny and it wouldn’t even matter if no one had change and you wouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable again.

END OF SCENE 1