Disclaimer: This series of story installment will be a cross between script writing and story telling. I don’t believe that stories have to be told in a certain fixed format, I care more about getting my story line and feelings across.
INT. PITCH BLACK. THE SOUND OF KEYS TURNING THE DOOR LOCK, PLASTIC BAGS RUBBING AGAINST THE DOOR, HEELS CLARKING AGINST THE HARDWOOD FLOOR IN THE BACKGROUND.
Two silhouettes slowly appear from the dark. Blinded by the light behind them, one can barely make out the gender of these two people: a man and a woman.
The man and the woman routinely place their suitcases and purse on the couch and chair. Plastic bags are temporarily ignored on the dining table. Like every evening, the woman heads straight to the bedroom while the man picks up the remote control and switches on the TV.
The apartment consists of a dining and living area. As soon as they moved in a few years ago, they have hired the most talented interior designer in the city to do their interior decoration. The walls are plain white and all the furniture is either made out of stainless steel or plastic. She doesn’t care much about the decorations as much as she does having a home, so he pretty much takes control of it. And he apparently has quite a strong opinion as to what he likes. The colour scheme that he chose were of only two: black and white. Occasionally, he would change the layout of his apartment depending on his mood, but never his colour scheme. She calls this borderline OCD, he calls this taste.
The TV is now blaring some Bloomberg financial news, something about a recent protest called Occupy Wall Street. “Apparently some idiots think that they can change the world by starving themselves,” he thought to himself. “So naive.”
The woman has now emerged from the bedroom with her coat off. She picks up the bags from the dining table and walks to the kitchen.
MICROWAVE DOOR SWINGS OPEN. THE BEEPING SOUND AT THE TOUCH OF THE MICROWAVE BUTTONS. HUMMING NOISE IN THE BACKGROUND AS LITTLE BLACK METAL BOX ROARS INTO LIFE.
The noise from the microwave is almost hypnotising. The woman stands in front of the washing machine and stares at the light coming out of the microwave. Watching the plate in the microwave rotate and the number on the countdown screen go down, the woman seems to have closed herself off from the rest of the world. Without realising, she begins turning the ring on her fourth finger. She didn’t notice that she does this all the time whenever she has something on her mind until Barbara pointed out one time. Barbara and her are coworkers. They both work at the same law firm but they never met each other because they worked at different floors. They became close friends when a mutual friend introduced them to each other at the annual christmas dinner a few years ago. Turns out they went to the same school, lived in the same district as kids and even had a couple of mutual friends in college. “You know that you turn your ring whenever something is bothering you, right?” said Barbara as they were walking back from their usual after lunch Starbucks pilgrimage. Taking a sip from her coffee, “Nothing is bothering me,” she said. “Whatever. You know you can’t hide from me,” Barbara knows exactly what she’s doing, but she knows when to shut it and when to be a bitch. This time, she’d hold her silence.
And now in this quiet little space, she finally has the courage to face herself.
BEEP BEEP BEEEEEEP. WOMAN TAKES FOOD OUT OF THE MICROWAVE, SETS IT NICELY ON A PLATE. SHE STANDS THERE STARING AT THE PLATE. FINGERS TOUCHING THE CHIPPED BIT ON THE RIM, FEELING THE SHAPE OF THE MSSING PIECE. ONCE SHARP AND NOW SMOOTH. SHE TAKES A DEEP BREATHE AND WALKS OUT OF THE KITCHEN.
“Dinner is served.”