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Ash, 28

We hear Harvest Moon start to play- it’s coming from the record player on the dresser across the room. We can hear Cicadas outside- a hot Georgia summer night. The music continues as a toilet flushes down the hall. Footsteps approach.


I love this song. 


Ash begins to sing along and move a bit throughout the room. She bops onto the bed next to us.


You aren’t tired, are you? 

We respond.

Well, I can’t sleep now-  I always get a rush of adrenaline after sex.. Every part of my body feels like dandelion fluff. If I cum. Which- I did. we know Sometimes people can’t tell- I think it’s obvious..especially with that thing I do with my leg- But some people can’t tell. 


That was fun.


Ash rolls closer to us. 


Do you want to cuddle for a while and watch som- 


She cuts herself off as she feels something under her fitted sheet.


Sorry- there’s a weird lump here. Under the fitted sheet. Hang on-


She gets up and reaches under the sheet, trying not to take the corners up.


I think I’ve- got it!


She pulls a crumpled-up bit of cloth and holds it up.


What is this? 



It’s underwear. Huh- 



We respond.


It’s just that- it’s not MY underwear. And it’s not YOUR underwear, right? Right. Right. How long has it been there? 

Trying to piece it together.


I’m sorry- this is kind of embarrassing. I washed my sheets, I promise. They must have been mixed in with the laundry or something.



We respond

Right. I am the one making this weird. 


We respond.

Ugh, that smile. 

We laugh together.


They’re kind of cute though. 



I’m going to try them on. 

She stands on the bed to put them on. Through laughter:

They’re clean! 

How do I look? They’re actually pretty nice. I think these were Sarah’s. She told me the only thing she ever spent real money on was underwear.



Spotting something else here.

There’s something else!? 

She reaches under the fitted sheet again. Grabs something larger this time. It’s a T-shirt.


Oh no way! Whoa whoa whoa what? This was my ex’s favorite shirt. X-Files. He was so torn up about losing this. I guess it’s been a while since I really did the laundry- we looked everywhere for this. 

Well, we’ve gotta complete the outfit. 

Am I obligated to give these back? Finders keepers, right? 


She puts the shirt on. Laughter. Falling back into bed.


Thanks for being such a good sport about this. I know this is still pretty fresh and we haven’t really talked about our dating histories or anything. What’s that word you taught me earlier? Compuuursion? Yes. Right. It’s like the opposite of jealousy, right? Sort of. Or I guess more- feeling genuine happiness for someone else’s experiences. Well, these were good memories. These things meant something to people who mean something to me. 

You remind me of the kind of lover Anais Nin would write about. You’re liberated. Do you know her? We do not. She’s best known for her diaries I think, but in the 1940s, she took a job writing pornography for a wealthy book collector for-like- $1 a page. They are my favorite. And at first, she didn’t take it seriously. She thought that writing to order was a “castrating occupation.” I think most artists feel this way about commissions. This client wanted clinical descriptions of sex- not the poetry of seduction and tension. Anais wouldn’t have it. She realized that she was writing something she'd never heard before- she was writing about sex from a woman’s perspective. About women who were empowered by sex. That was a really novel idea at the time. 


Should we see if there’s anything else to discover in this bedroom vortex?

We respond.


She starts to feel around the rest of the bed for pokes and prods. She comes to the pillow and puts her hand on it- it shifts and we hear that it is full of things that clank together.

What the hell? We’ve been using this pillow all night- how can it be so full of stuff now? 


She picks up the case and empties it out on the bed. Everything falls out of it with a “THUD.”


Oh god- did you put this all here? 

We respond.


I’m sorry- of course, you didn’t- but Where did all of this come from? 

It looks like a souvenir shop threw up on my bed. 


She starts to notice the contents of the pile.

Oh my god, this is the bubblegum machine ring Jason DeAngelo gave me on my 16th birthday. 

She puts it on her finger.

Still fits. 

All of this shit is from someone I’ve been with. 

Oh Carla’s Blue Jays cap- whoa the sunglasses that Dave bought in Spain! 

There is a sense of wonder about her. She is enjoying this. We are enjoying this together- leave space for us to respond. She searches other places around the bed.

There’s more under here! And between the box spring! I haven’t seen any of this stuff in years! 

She picks through it, reveling in one item after another.

This- this was a fun night. You've got to put something on. 

This would look great on you.  

What else do we have in here?

She uncovers a green sock. It shocks her. The record starts to skip.



The record continues to skip. She stares at the sock.


Responding to us. Yeah, 

it’s just a sock. 


Snapping out of it she gets up to turn the record off.

Only the one- 


This didn't belong to an ex.

It’s mine. 

I know where the other one is. I left it with someone who made me feel very lonely. I wanted to make sure that they thought of me, even if it was just for a moment when they came across my green sock hidden under their bed. But stuff accumulated there and they didn’t find it. Or maybe they didn’t remember it was mine. This is a joke. Is that what happens to all the socks we lose? They wind up under the beds of people we loved once? 


She holds it for a moment. She puts it on.

Hm. Still fits. 


The record starts up again.



This is a mess. But look! There’s a you and me shaped hole right in the center here. 

The record plays on.



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