I have no idea where I'm going with this...

Chapter One

It's not quite early evening. Memorial Park is quiet. Picnicking masses have availed themselves of their various modes of transportation and delivered their snot-nosed nymphs to Spiderman and Hannah Montana beds for naps. An unimposing platform blocks a view of the pond where ducks, geese and swans call out that it's time to sup. Spindly pines surround the area with some azaleas which seem to have taken no notice of the fact that it's early January. It's unclear if they're foolhardy or hopeful. As Forrest says, maybe it's a little bit of both.

A lone couple returns from their meander along a curving trail. She carries a blanket to spread upon the semi-green expanse of grass, where, in an hour, the night crowd will gather for Shakespeare in the Park. In January? Well, this is Houston, where folks aren't bothered by fickle trifles like weather.

He is a beleagured carpenter, on hiatus from new home construction that leads to overpopulation of what once was considered national forest. She interests him, yet he's clueless as to her reasoning behind the gothic attire, accentuated by dark lips and nails, which casts a gray pall over the otherwise softly caressing fading light. He doesn't understand her sorrow. She's a product of the upper middle class, after all. He's a working stiff still trying to make good.

He's confided in her that city life doesn't gel with his lifetime goals. She complains about her Australian Shepherd Duke, whom her father keeps because he has a back yard. She's resigned herself to the ridiculously expensive condo downtown, because she works in the medical center. Ironically she's a lab technician who spends eight plus hours, five or six days a week, drawing blood. She looks like a mistress of the dark, who's forgotten she can't traipse about in the daytime. She curtly dismisses any further discussion of family, shakes out the plaid flannel blanket, and arranges it neatly upon an even patch free of dampness. He takes her hand as the sit in silent repose. Tonight it's The Tempest. He was hoping for As You Like It. But that was last week. They missed it.

She sighs and lies back to admire the last rays of a star she has no business gazing upon. Her sense of disdain bothers him. They've known each other a good while, but they don't really know anyone, not even themselves. He asks her if she's jealous that a female friend called on his cell while they were walking. She replies with a, "Humphf," and says nothing. Is she petulant, or dismissing it as inconsequential? He thinks her most grievous flaw is her lack of appreciation for classic theater. He lapses into what appears to her to be a state of suspended animation as they await act one, forty minutes away. She contemplates his sweeping black lashes and faded worn jeans...