Excerpt from Play
(KNOCK on door. WOMAN crosses the room and opens the door. HITMAN, an exceptionally handsome man, stands in the doorway.)
HITMAN: Can I help you?
WOMAN: Isn’t that my line?
HITMAN: Not when the visit is clandestine.
(HITMAN lets himself into the Living Room and hangs his jacket on the coat rack.)
HITMAN: So you’re the lovely lady who needs,
you know, assistance?
WOMAN: I’m not quite up to speed.
Who are you?
HITMAN: Oh, so that’s how you’ll play this.
Well lots of ladies have tried that role, miss.
But either way, the word on the street --
WOMAN: The street?!
HITMAN: Don’t worry. It’s still discreet.
WOMAN: I don’t know what you’re talking about.
HITMAN: Says here…
(HITMAN removes a small piece of paper from his pocket and reads it.)
HITMAN: Yup. Right address. Beyond a doubt.
LADY 3: (aside) My goodness. He is handsome.
LADY 2: (aside) What a hunk!
HITMAN: What’s happened in here? What’s with all this junk?
WOMAN: Oh, just a bit of fun.
HITMAN: It’s a real mess.
Alhough roses are my weak spot. I confess.
WOMAN: They are?
(HITMAN bends to pick up a rose petal and fondles it sensually.)
HITMAN: Blankets of flowers warm those
eternally departed. And in a rose,
one hears songs of the broken-hearted. Hey,
I think I’m getting ‘bit carried away.
Excuse me. But it must be your perfume.
WOMAN: Or just the petals strewn around the room.
HITMAN: Soft petals, broken and bare, sigh so sweet.
WOMAN: Who are you? You sound more like an aesthete…
or poet, or…I feel sort of confused.
HITMAN: Translucent eyes. You’ve the face of a Muse.
WOMAN: (transfixed) Well…I…um…