1. Suburban kitchen, yellow gingham, etc.
She shoulders the phone, one hand floating above the numbers.
Looks out the window at curlered neighbor mowing lawn, black dog
hurling itself against chain link.
2. Night. She jumps out of the car at a stoplight, dressed for a
party. Laughing, runs into the cedar-bark bed of an industrial
Close-up of car interior: she holds out a red tulip, petals shut
to a point like a fat ink marker. He smiles briefly, face going
green in the light change, drives on.
3. She walks outside, rubbing the telephone side of her neck,
bends to dog with leash. Smell of cut grass, distant traffic, an
4. Close-up of tulip in a plastic cup on a coffee table. Ashtrays,
beer bottles. It is open now, a bowl of black furred stamens.
She checks her lipstick in a pocket mirror, notices him across the
crowded room alone, arms folded, looking at nothing. She pauses,
then draws a deep breath, a new mouth.
5. The dog leaps at the end of its leash. She is watching the
sidewalk, pulled like a puppet. Then lets go, raising arms above
her head, turning her face to the April sky.
6. The tulip flat as a plate. Smoke swirling around it.