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The stage is set and you are swinging your fists around “like a mad person,” they say—but up your sleeve is something good. The guests lean back appalled. The lack of decorum shown! Like they understand respect. They cut their teeth on strangers nightly. And with her glass raised she paints the scene in black and white. Every motive is laid bare and the hands go up in protest wildly. But she’s just started this night, and they won’t budge an inch. They’ve too much pride to protect, too much at stake in this social affair. Now our hosts plead for silence (they calmly will explain). But this night was meant for them, and they’ll drop like flies around the open flame of the heart that was torn here and thrown aside. And for what? For some fuck not to pass up? He’s old enough to be her father. “Crash,” go the unsaid acts that hang above the set. Here fly the untold words, the margin of the script. These walls, they will collapse; the day will take them back as the sun lights up the storied strip.