SCREENPLAY A NOCTURNAL SCENE

SCREENPLAY OF A NOCTURNAL SCENE

It’s the early hours. Silence and darkness in the couple’s bedroom. He sleeps. She tosses and turns in bed for two hours, sleepless. He begins to snore. She almost goes crazy with the sound of disdain. She can’t put off until tomorrow.

“Are you sleeping?” (She can’t, she can’t wait.)

“What?” (the fright and the interrupted sleep.)

“Are you sleeping?” (the heart beats fast, fearing the reaction.)

“Yes, I was sleeping” (annoyance and difficulty in the articulation of speech.)

“Could you hold me? I can’t sleep. I am insecure. I keep thinking, thinking. I can’t sleep.” (The dark ceiling revolves around her. She is afflicted.)

Silence. She can’t move.

“Hold me. That’s all I need for getting sleep.” (She lies.)

Silence. He “places” the arm on the waist and holds her tight in order to stop her talking.

“This way is much better. Do you see how warm it is? It’s nice when we cuddle, isn’t it? (She tries.)

“Go to sleep, OK?” (He sighs.)

“Can’t we talk a little bit?” (She feels a great desire to cry because she thinks he does not care for her anymore.)

“Does it have to be now?” (He does not believe that she wants to talk at that time.)

“Why cannot it be now?” (She realizes he doesn’t love her anymore.)

“Why don’t we sleep now? I have to wake up early.” (He’s getting nervous.)

“Do you still love me?” (She starts to cry.)

Silence. He knew she’s going to make “that” question.

“ D O Y O U S T I L L L O V E M E?” (She asks in capital letters because by now she’s already shouting and almost in tears.)

Silence. He thinks she wants to drive him crazy.

“Tell me, do you love me?” (She waits for the answer, the worst answer.)

Silence. His blood pressure is rising fast.

“Why don’t you answer?” (She thinks, as always, that silence is a fateful denial. Silence. He is stubborn and never gives in.)

“Why don’t you answer? What’s up with you? I think we need to talk about our relationship. (She is really determined.)

“I’m sleeping now and when I’m sleeping I don’t love anybody, I don’t want to talk to anyone!” (He shouts. He lost his patience totally.)

And she begins rapidly talking:

“I know, this is not the best moment to talk, you have a hard day, but I’ve been upset with the way you have been treating me. You’ve been so far away, aloof. It seems you have no more pleasure in talking. You hardly talked to me today. We’re not getting laid as much as we’re used to. Do you remember? We were all over each other all the time. That’s why I feel bad, because our relationship was so intense and now I’m afraid of letting something interfere with this history we’ve built. And then I can’t sleep. I keep thinking, thinking, and wondering where I’m mistaking, my share of guilt in that. And then I am afraid you don’t love me as you did before, that you have found other woman more interesting. More interesting than me. Prettier than me. Thinner than me. Thin, but with a nice butt, well toned and hard. Upright boobs. Firm and perfects boobs, staring you, staring you, like in that song of Caetano (*¹). And the beautiful face. Smart. An intellectual. That’s it, she should be an intellectual. Intellectual, but creative. Maybe she is a famous writer. Beautiful, hot and successful woman. Maybe someone like Bruna (*²)? But better than Bruna. Yeah, you should have chosen a writer only to tease me. Just because I write. A drop-dead gorgeous writer. No, I don’t know… I am afraid. I am so afraid.” (She is really disturbed and taking the conversation seriously. She even thinks about death. She is over the top.)

“I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! Oh, my God, I don’t believe it! What are you saying, crazy woman? What hot writer are you talking about? Did you completely freak out? Where did you get that? At this stage of the game, how could you invent something like that? You say I’ve barely talked to you today. But we talk during dinner. And if you don’t talk before it was because we worked all day at different places. And what do you mean when you say we are not having sex often? Do you know how much time is been since we haven’t had sex? Don’t you remember? Do you have amnesia? We got laid last night. We had sex almost all night long and also in the night before. We have sex almost every day. Or maybe the “other writer” who is taking your place in these moments? I don’t believe, you think that something’s wrong just because I want to sleep. Just for today, my God! (He really does not believe indeed.)

- The thing... The thing ... (She trembles. Fear of talking about “that thing”).

Silence. He does not help.

“The thing... The thing...” (She still has afraid of finishing the sentence.)

Silence.

“The thing... The thing...” (She’s still afraid.)

Silence. He enjoys the stutter moment in her verbal dexterity and takes a nap for a few seconds.

“The thing is ... The thing is...” (She turns the light on.)

Silence. The strong light in his face bothers him very much. Yet he tries to continue the nap.

“The thing is... The thing is...”

Silence. He dreams quickly with the image of Bruna lying naked on him.

“The thing is that I found a long strand of a hair on your shoulder.” (She spits out finally, waiting for the huge reaction.)

Silence. He is trying to get out of the dream, but Bruna keeps on pulling him.

“Don’t you say anything? See? Don’t you want to talk about it now?” (She’s waiting, anguished.)

“Uh? Huh? What?” (He wakes up from the short nap.)

“Look, I tried to ask you during the whole dinner, but I couldn’t. I was afraid. I was afraid, yes. You’d better put all your cards on the table. I’d rather you tell me the truth. If you don’t love me anymore, I’ll have to understand. But if you think you still can like me again, I’ll accept your mistake since you stop immediately. Leave this woman right now and we can be happy again. (She cries abundantly. She appreciates a lot that part of the script. A difficult role of a understanding, betrayed woman. What a great performance! How much resourcefulness! She cries even more and hiccups. It’s moving).

“What was the color of the hair?” (Finally, he comes to terms and agrees to talk. He won’t fall asleep anyway.)

“The color… Why do you ask?” She gets confused.

“Bruna is blonde, isn’t she? Have you found a strand of blonde hair?” (He opens up his eyes and stares at the woman with a smile.)

“No, it was brown.” (So she thinks that the writer is brunette.)

“The hair is yours. It’s only you. You are the only woman I have gotten close in the last years. I’ve rarely seen even my mother. (He gets back to the pillow. The blonde of his dream waits anxious.)

“Was it mine?” (She feels bad.)

“It has to be... There is no other.” (He takes a deep breath.)

“You only want to sleep tonight.” (She feels embarrassed.)

“Go to sleep too. I hold you.” (Now he is very understanding.)

“Are you dreaming of some woman? You never dream of me. (She wipes off her tears in the sheet.)

“I’m dreaming of Bruna. (He laughs.)

“Turn off the light”, he asks.

“You mean it?” (She turns off the light).

“I do. This dream is so nice.” (Gently, he pulls her closer. He can feel her small body, the soft hips and the goose bump skin. His interested hand does the pleasant walk).

“Do I write well? Do you like what I write?” (She is excited inside his arms).

Silence. He climbs over her. After all, he really lost sleep. At the end of the day, he loves her very much and carries a torch for her. He doesn’t lose face for not being too soft. Plus, he even thinks she writes quite well.

NOTES

(1) Caetano Veloso, famous Brazilian singer and composer. The song mentioned is called “Rapte-me, Camaleoa”.

(2) Bruna Lombardi, Brazilian poet, model and actress.