Dramatic Writing: Gary’s Monologue
GARY:
It was a Sunday. I don’t paint on any other day. God created the world in 6 days, and on the seventh day, he rested, right? Well, my rest day is Sunday. You can’t just approach a white canvas and suddenly create something. No. You need to go out in the world, you know? You have to walk the streets of this city. Watch people. Observe them. Like, there. Notice these two? This young man has been going on and on about how lousy his red wine is. Of course, it is. You don’t pair a sweet Pinot Noir with...buffalo Mac and Cheese. That’s a travesty. But he hasn’t noticed that his woman has been trying to leave him for the past 45 minutes. Or that woman over there. She’s rearranged the utensils just about 20 times - the number of minutes it took for her phone to finally ring.
So, on Sundays, I paint. Every Sunday, she would prepare all of my tools. Joan knew exactly how I liked my paintbrushes laid out. A mess, she’d tell you. An organized mess, I’d tell her. But she always left the right amount of residue on my brushes from the week before. Right under my stand, to the far right, the bourbon is perfectly placed so that I can reach it without spilling it over or needing to take my eyes off of my canvas. It was only at around noon that I would stop painting. Joan made the most delicious white bean soup. I know. IT sounds…well. I know what it sounds like. But trust me. It’s quite delicious.
But that Sunday. Seven years ago, as I walked into the front door, towards my studio, something was different. The house was all the same. Everything was the same. But something was very different. You know, there are very few moments in your life where you really know what’s about to happen to you. And there I was. Standing in front of the door to my studio and right behind it is Joan. There she was. With another man. An unfamiliar man. With no apology, no dramatic scene as though there should be no surprise.
WOMAN:
What’s the worst part of it all?
GARY:
I don’t paint on Sundays anymore.
