SHE LIVES

Small, Single-Bedroom Apartment — Afternoon

A cramped, modest apartment. Everything is small — the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom — with barely enough room to squeeze a bed into place.

In the living room, simple and a little worn, a Ferguson Thorn TX9 television slumps in the corner, its screen cracked and lifeless. Beside it, a tiny table holds a Royal Grey TW31 typewriter, its keys dulled from heavy use. A single three-seater couch faces the window. A colorful, if slightly faded, rug brings a touch of warmth to the floor.

In another corner, a small chest of drawers, its top cluttered with loose papers and manuscripts. On the very top, a thick stack bound in string — titled Les Huit. Just behind it, a photograph in a plain frame: a strikingly beautiful young woman with cascading dark hair and piercing grey eyes, her warm, radiant smile seeming to light up the room.

The afternoon sun pours through a large window overlooking the street four stories below. From here, the world feels lively — cars weaving past, people milling about the building entrance, children chasing each other on the sidewalk.

A gentle breeze nudges the sheer, almost transparent curtain, making it billow and whisper.

MIRIAM (vexed, frustrated)

I told you — you can’t ask me that. I’ve already said everything I’m allowed to.

RICHARD (genuine, apologetic)

Alright... I just—

(pauses, exhales)

I’m sorry.

Richard slumps onto the couch, twirling a battered pencil between the fingers of his left hand. He stares toward the window, a faint smile playing on his lips.

RICHARD (softly, almost to himself)

Just wanted a little more air of the... a little more tone.

Anything.

Just... anything.

MIRIAM (sharply)

Richard!

Richard throws up his hands in mock surrender, grinning a little.

Suddenly, noise echoes from the hallway outside — raised voices, hurried footsteps. Richard tilts his head, listening, then glances back toward the window.

RICHARD (muttering)

That’s the third one today.

Silence.

RICHARD (calling out)

Mill?

Silence. Heavy, deliberate. Richard shifts upright, his eyes combing the room with a growing urgency.

RICHARD (louder)

Babe!?

MIRIAM (soft, almost distant)

I’m here.

Richard pushes himself to his feet, moving slowly, almost warily, toward the window.

RICHARD (gentler now)

You’re not mad, are you? I’m sorry... I just get curious, that’s all.

MIRIAM

It’s alright.

(Beat)

I understand.

Richard taps the worn pencil against his lips, the tiny sound loud in the thick, breathless room. He leans lazily against the wall by the window, a crooked smile twisting onto his face. And then, almost without thinking, he starts to sing.

RICHARD (off-key)

Forgive me, a—

Sudden movement — hurried, laughing footsteps pattering across the floor, as if escaping him.

MIRIAM (mock outrage, laughing)

No, no, no! I won’t have you butchering a classic. That’s blasphemy!

(Firmly)

And it’s ‘give me,’ not forgive me. I’ve told you a thousand times.

Richard cranes his neck toward the door, amusement flashing in his eyes.

RICHARD

Well, one can improvise.

MIRIAM

With any other. Not that one.

RICHARD (smirking)

Alright, alright. I’ll spare it. I’ll find something else to Frankenstein.

MIRIAM

Right...!

Richard chuckles low under his breath, tossing the pencil onto the table with a faint clatter. He saunters back to the couch, sprawling onto it carelessly.

RICHARD (grinning)

Alright, Madame. I hear you. No more heresy.

He sinks deeper into the cushions, but the restless energy won’t leave him. He bolts upright, snatches up the pencil again, tapping it rhythmically against his lips.

RICHARD (gritting his teeth)

Agh. I’m stuck, Millie.

Can’t figure out how to move her forward...

Silence again — not soft this time, but dense, like a pressure filling the room.

RICHARD (pleading, half-joking)

Toss a dog a bone?

MIRIAM (mock stern)

Nope.

You’re the writer. It’s your story.

And stop pulling your hair... Don’t want you going bald this early.

Richard exhales a rough laugh and leans back, surrendering to the inertia pulling at him, a smile flickering across his face.

RICHARD (grinning)

I knew you only loved me for my glorious hair.

Miriam’s laughter bursts out, full and bright, filling every cramped corner of the room.

Then — silence. Dense again, humming under the skin.

RICHARD (softly)

I miss you, Mill...

MIRIAM (teasing)

Is there another Mill I should know about?

Richard shakes his head, a faint, weary smile tugging at his mouth. He tosses the pencil onto the table again with a careless flick.

RICHARD

You know what I mean.

Silence.

RICHARD (lower, almost to himself)

I wanted to get you that apartment, you know?

Before they let me go...

Wanted to turn it into a nice little studio for you.

MIRIAM (quiet, knowing)

I know...

The floor creaks gently under unseen footsteps. The air shifts — a colder breeze pushing through the loose windowpane, making the curtain tremble.

Outside, louder now, voices and hurried footsteps pound through the hallway.

MIRIAM (carefully)

Have you given any thought to what we talked about?

RICHARD (hesitant)

Y-yeah...

MIRIAM

You don’t sound too—

RICHARD (rushing, forcing cheer)

No, no, it’s—uh—

Yeah.

Yeah, we should try it.

MIRIAM (eager, soft)

Really?

Can we try it now?

RICHARD (laughs nervously)

You—

I—

Yeah, sure.

Why not.

Richard lies down on the couch, letting himself sink into it. He breathes slowly, deliberately — each breath an act of will.

He shuts his eyes. Opens them again. Not all the way. Shuts them tighter.

Even in rest, the tremor in his eyelids betrays him.

MIRIAM (whispering, seductive)

Where are you?

What are you thinking about?

RICHARD (soft, dreamy)

The crystal castle on the moon.

Thinking about your lips...

They’re the prettiest I’ve ever known.

MIRIAM (coaxing)

Come find me.

I’m in one of the quarters...

Waiting with many ready kisses for your dreams.

RICHARD (grinning, playful)

Give me a clue.

MIRIAM (almost a breath)

I can see a piece of the Earth through the ventilation shaft.

RICHARD (smiling, easy)

Good.

MIRIAM (teasing, but firm)

One more thing.

RICHARD

What?

MIRIAM

Take off your clothes.

Come to me — bare.

Richard’s smile falters. His eyes blink open, mouth parting slightly in surprise. He turns his head toward the sound of her voice, searching.

MIRIAM (innocently)

What?

Richard rises slowly, the floor creaking underfoot. Without much thought, he shoves his jeans down around his ankles. As he straightens, he catches his reflection — distorted — in the shattered screen of the dead TV.

His legs: thin.

Too thin.

The breeze through the window presses his grey t-shirt against his chest, clinging to the sharp outlines of his ribs.

MIRIAM (calling gently)

Richard?

RICHARD (shaken, distracted)

Hmm? Yeah—

Sorry, just—

A soft knock rattles the door. Richard’s head jerks toward the sound. Instinctively, he yanks his jeans back up, fumbling for a red cardigan and throwing it over himself.

Before turning the knob, he glances back toward the room — nods once, an awkward, forced gesture paired with a brittle smile — and then opens the door.

The hinges whine faintly before releasing the entrance.