Jaime walks from his bedroom to the kitchen.  He’s wearing a black, red, and yellow striped sweatshirt that reads: KÜSSEN SIE MICH, BIN ICH DEUTSCHLANDER.

Image Credit: John Catbagan

In his hands are another folded sweatshirt with the same color pattern, a German chocolate bar and a single rose.  He places the items on the counter.  He walks to the refrigerator.  There is a note on the refrigerator in large feminine script that reads: Cris will pick you up at 7:00 pm on Sunday for Oktoberfest!

He opens the refrigerator door and grabs a bottle of water.  The doorbell rings and he quickly moves to answer it.  He swings the door open.  Cris stands in a tired, crooked fashion.  Her purse is in one hand and a newspaper is in the other.

She lifts the newspaper and hands it to him.

CRIS: What’s this?

Jaime receives the paper as she brushes past him.  Jaime closes the door and fumbles with the paper.

Cris moves to the living room and stands, staring.  Jaime looks at her, amused, but notices that she’s not.

He looks at the cover of the Star.  It’s fully spread with a picture of the smoldering World Trade Center.

JAIME: Why do you have this?

CRIS: I was waiting for my flight and I saw it on a bench.  So I picked it up.  I don’t read the paper, I was curious as to why it was in a D.C. airport.

JAIME: This is from September 12th.

CRIS: Yeah.  There’s an interesting little article on about the fourteenth page from the front.  Maybe you’ve read it.

Jaime folds the paper back up and puts it on the counter next to his gifts.

JAIME: Yes I have.

Cris stands.  Her eyes are wide.  Her brows are raised and her mouth is agape.  She opens her hands.

CRIS: Well?

JAIME: Well.

CRIS: What the FUCK, Jaime?

Jaime takes a seat on the couch.  Cris doesn’t budge.

JAIME: You have questions.

CRIS: No shit.

JAIME: Ask them.

CRIS: For starters, how about, is this about you?

JAIME: Yes it is.

Cris crosses her arms.

CRIS: Uh, don’t you think it would have been nice to tell me about it?

JAIME: Yes.  I am sorry.

CRIS: And.

JAIME: And what?

CRIS: Jaime, you plan on killing yourself and that’s all you’re going to say?

JAIME: What do you want me to say?

CRIS: That you’re not serious.

Jaime looks downward.

JAIME: I can’t say that.

CRIS: So you are?

Jaime doesn’t move.  He remains silent.

CRIS: Look at me.

He looks up.

CRIS: Are you gonna do it?

JAIME: It’s become complicated.

CRIS: Yes or no.

JAIME: Yes.

She adjusts her purse.

CRIS: Then what have you been doing with me?  Just one last piece of ass?

JAIME: No!  I don’t use people.

CRIS: I feel used.  The clock is ticking for us.

JAIME: What you did was at your own risk.  If you got nothing out of it, why did you partake in the first place?

CRIS: I didn’t expect this.

JAIME: But I could have died any day.  You wouldn’t have expected that.  We didn’t expect 9/11.

CRIS: This is different.  This is intentional.  It’s suicide.

JAIME: You didn’t know me.  I could have been a convict, I could have left you, I could have done very many things.  That’s the risk.

She sits on the couch next to him.

CRIS: But there was hope.

JAIME: For what?

CRIS: That this could last.

JAIME: It never lasts.  None of us make it out of this alive.

CRIS: Then what were your intentions with me.

JAIME: To love you for the time that was given.  I did that.  I do that.

Jaime stares at Cris.  She looks at her hands, straight ahead, then downward.  He softly places her hair behind her ear.

JAIME: And now?

CRIS: And now, there is no more hope for us.  I have to go.

She stands and walks towards the door.  Jaime stands.

JAIME: Please don’t go.

She looks at him, bobs her head, opens the door, and walks out.  The door closes behind her.