Dep proceeds to the porthole with IT TAKES TWO

[DeP has pulled up her shirt to reveal the pale skin of her torso. With a pair of silver pincers, she takes up a bit of skin and pulls. They say....you've heard of infamous 'they'...the omni-present, all-knowing, egocentric THEY who watch us...they say that a person can calculate the flubber-fat ratio by pinching a bit of skin here and there. DeP's read that but she is not convinced. The cap she's just finished, Ms Mim's offering this quarter, has reminded her of the follies of fitness, how fickle it can be, how in a few short months a svelte and pliable physique can become bulbous and saggish but how the opposite is not so true. She tosses the pincers away. They've given her no new knowledge, no insight into her state of being. What they've given her are two small, pinkish bite marks.]

And so the cap with the little shiney shortpants lays expectant before me. It's got some good points, easy flow, grammatical efficiency. Some humour. People struggling for a place, you know?

[she rolls the brown egg across the top of her desk, depositing it in its handpainted cup before straightening the little muscle shirt over the organized sheets of the cap just read.]

What is it? What is it? Its features flow well enough, as these linear familiar paths chosen are known to do. Yes, there's trouble. Maybe a will for solution. Movement. Hope, even. But...

It Takes Two resolves too easily, je pense. This road has been travelled before, true...relationships that teeter, reputations that fall, life-isn't-always-what-we-expected melancholy. All that. It's not a crime to venture down this path..it's just, it's just...we need a few more potholes to shake us up, to gather momentum. We need our hearts to pound in anticipation or elation or sorrow or expectation or surprise! Oui, take us to the edge of falling off. Push! Pull back! Fall! Take us to breathlessness...

You can't go from slovenly to svelte in six months hardly ever really probably not. I don't believe it, anyway. And other stuff that stalls, Ms. Mims.

[DeP rises, rubs absently at the lipstick smudge on the shiney little shorts, then escorts the cap to the porthole and deposits it to the cacaphony of the deluge. There are a few screams, the beginnings of a cheerleading chant, then a HUThutHUuuutttt! She pulls the door closed so that silence returns to The Floor. Almost silence. There's the squeaky squawk of the mirror ball in slowmotion rotation. And there's the whine of the pulley within the walls from which the Boss is suspended... DeP steps to the window where she's left her gitanes, lights one, then watches as the smoke curls up and dissipates across the ancient piss stains of the ceiling..]

Soon enough, the moon. La lune sera bientôt disponible..

[She smiles, then turns toward her desk and the pile of waiting caps. Work to be done.]