Amazing film idea: A middle-aged couple live in a stale, uninviting inner city apartment together. Grey furniture punctuates the emptiness of the living room with cold, clinical arrangement against the walls. The books on the shelf are all in perfect alignment, dusted weekly though never opened. Dysfunction & Occlusal Equilibriation. The Healthy Nutritional Guide. Advanced Endodontology. Dealing With Grief. The Five Stages Of Loss. Meals are a silent affair, dialogue limited to the clinking of cold steel on plain porcelain. He inhabits his study, a desk lamp punctuating the dim shadows of unopened storage boxes. British stamps and tags still cling limply to the handles of suitcases stacked beside the desk. WILKINS. LON > SYD. Tacked to a pin board is a photograph of husband and wife on a skiing trip. Another in France, though one edge appears to have torn off in transit. His hair is thinning now along the top and silver has begun to creep in. Although always clean-shaven, with crisply ironed shirts and shoes buffed to a matte cleanliness, the sunkenness of his eyes cannot belie the hollow funk that fills his every movement. She, in her dark stockings and unruly hair forcefully pulled into a bun, inhabits the spare bedroom, staring; ever staring. Her fingers run along a large white cabinet dresser as her eyes dart back and forth almost frightfully, opening and closing empty drawers. A music box sits beneath the tall oval mirror in the centre, though the ability to play music is long gone. The rest of the room is bare, save for an unused treadmill in the far corner, stacked with more unopened boxes. The woman paces slowly from wall to wall, struggling to recall memories that refuse to respond to her call, like phantom limbs of the mind. This is where the bed would be. This is where the bed should be. A laboured creak announces the presence of her husband in the doorway. She turns, wide-eyed, tucking her hand swiftly behind her back. Monica! he says wearily. Monica bites her lip. Monica. he repeats with a sigh, the resigned defeat in his voice hewn from years of atrophied hope. She swallows, her eyes unblinkingly locked onto his. The cabinet, Wendell. Its the cabinet. she pleads. Wendell leans against the door frame and clutches his forehead within his palm, looking back at her. I cant keep doing this. he responds. Why is there a cabinet, Wendell? I dont remember buying a cabinet. You dont remember buying a cabinet. We threw away the cot and the dolls and the photo frames but you wouldnt throw out the cabinet because you thought it wasnt for her because who would possibly need such a big cabinet dresser for a- It was probably a wedding gift, Monica, weve been over this! interjects Wendell. Its been USED, Wendell! snaps Monica, striding back over to it. One hand remains firmly clenched shut. Its WORN. The varnish has been worn in along the top from hands and elbows and THINGS. Why do we have this cabinet? Monica taps her hand firmly on the top in staccato frustration. Her tone has turned shrill and hysterical again and she knows it. She stands up with a sniff and turns to gather herself by staring out of the window at the bleak cement courtyard below their apartment block. I dont know, Monica. Wendell answers after a moment. He speaks softly now. Maybe someone had it put out on the curb when we were moving house from London and the movers put it in the truck by mistake. The air rings with forlorn resignation. Monica can still feel her blood pumping hotly in her ears. I dont even know why we moved here. she rasps, watching an elderly man sitting motionlessly on a bench. To get away. To start over. I dont really know myself. says Wendell. His ghostly reflection in the window glass straightens up in the doorway. Do you want me to get rid of the cabinet, Monica? Would that help? Monica sniffs and clears her throat, brushing a mutinous tear hastily away from her eyelid. No. she croaks. She turns her head away from the window toward him. No, its a nice cabinet. We can use it for guests. Wendell smiles meekly and steps into the room, placing his arms around his wife and burying his lips into the top of her hair. Were okay. he whispers to her. Monica nods, placing one hand on his. After a moment, Wendell kisses her again and walks back to his study. For a minute or more, Monica stands alone in the middle of the empty room before inhaling audibly and turning to leave. She opens her hand, revealing inside a small lace handkerchief which she spreads out beside the music box on the top of the cabinet. Embroidered in small pink stitching is the name: HERMIONE.
Posted on: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 03:59:04 +0000
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