The lights rise slowly over a small, dusty set. A worn, rusted stool rests in the middle of the stable's corner. Saddles, bridles, horse blankets, and polo gear line the shelves and wall hangings, while some camera equipment takes up some space near where a door would be. A clean-cut guy (white tank undershirt, polo slacks, and riding boots) in his mid twenties sits on the stool, holding a pencil and a piece of paper that has been many time erased and crumpled. He is clearly frustrated with whatever he is attempting to write.
No. Too cliche.
UGH! NO! "TO William," is completely void of emotion.
(Beat. Deep breath.)
There. That's it. Just his name. His glorious, lovely, mathematically satisfactory name. Seven letters. And seven is by far my favorite number- I am sure that it's a sign. And then if you add the letters: 23+8+12+12+8+1+13... It comes out to-bam!-77. Which is yet further proof that this is meant to be. And then if you really insist on still going, 7+7=14, and 1+4+5, which is a completely neutral number. No bad omens. Not anywhere in the numbers, at least. Okay, come on, focus.
It says, "William! I am only going to say your name once, right here at the top of this letter, and it better have gotten your attention because what follows is VERY important- a matter of life and death! So listen up, pal."
Yes. I quite like it. Ah hem.
"William, I am writing to you because writing is what I do best, and I clearly have something HUGE to tell you, so I'm writing it down. Because... I can write."
FUCK. God, now I'm just rambling and sounding like an idiot. Come. ON! You said it yourself, this is what you do best! You need to just grow a pair, and be eloquent enough to put this into words. Stop being afraid of this.
"William, first and foremost, let me remind you of who I am. We met at a photo shoot, approximately forty-seven minutes ago, for the 'Rugged Polo Players of the British Isles' calendar. I mean, I obviously do NOT play polo, but I work out and look good in the clothes... and on a horse... What I mean is to say that I am a model. One of the, you know, ten or so models brought in to actually do the shoot, but we met, AND shook hands, I swear it. And while, to you, and awesome, totally famous guy who has a gift with that big polo stick thing, I was probably just another beautiful face in the crowd, that moment..." ahhhh, that moment, "was like... Have you ever been to Disney World? -backstory- I went when I was thirteen. When you go to the Magic Kingdom, there's this spectacular fireworks show that happens after the Orlando sunset, and Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty come out in their beautiful, impeccably crafted, sparkling ball gowns with all of their special little woodland creature friends and Tinker Bell flies over the crowd sprinkling glitter into the air and sky, already riddled with stars. Then, a million and one fireworks go off! And they aren't just any fireworks, the are MAGICAL, Disney fireworks, and you know at that moment that these are the fireworks that people talk about when they talk about falling in love. Please, don't think I'm crazy, but I saw that very same glistening light display the minute our hands touched. I mean, for one second, let's forget about your hair that gleams golden in the sun. Forget you eyes, so blue I can't. even. construct. a. full. sentence. The kind of blue that cornflowers are rumored to be in old Howard Keil musicals. The kind of blue that Valentino incorporates into every single article of menswear he has ever designed," don't think no one realizes that... For argument's sake, let's also forget how tight your ass looks in those adorable khaki polo pants, of whatever they are called, and how you look ALL KINDS of gorgeous in red. "If you had been wearing a burlap loincloth today when we met," I probably would've enjoyed it more, "and your hair and make-up hadn't been styled for you, I still would've experienced those same fireworks, heard the sympathetic tones of the Little Mermaid theme song, and seen deep into the soul of my SOULMATE. Sah-owel-may-tah. And trust me, I know that I am coming on a bit strong, but when something is so right, you can't let it slip by. So, please, don't be afraid to show your emotions, or to tell me how you feel about this. Because, like I said, I'm your soulmate. I will listen to all of your issues and reservations," as you bathe in a big hot bubble bath full of candy bubbles and I feed you juicy, luscious grapes right off the vine like the Greeks did... "That's how serious I am about listening to you. So, I am enclosing my information. I return to L.A. in a week, so plllllleeeeeaseeeee do not hesitate. Goodbye until tomorrow." Theeere. Oh, God, who am I kidding? What was I going to do, pin it on the door of his trailer? Hand it to the goo goo eyed girl that is running him refreshments every ten fucking minutes? If only I had applied for that job. I should just tear it up. Get rid of it. Forget about it.
He lifts the paper as if to tear it, but after a dramatic inner battle, cannot bear to.
What have I got to lose?
Folding the paper, he walks to the imaginary door.
Hey! Tiffany! Amber! Heather! FUCKING WHATEVER THE HELL YOUR GODFORSAKEN NAME IS. PLEASE COME HERE. RIGHT NOW. Yes, you. I have a message I want you to deliver.
(I had a picture of a really awesome looking guy in polo gear leaning rather flamboyantly perched on a fence. His character is modeled after my best friend and Jack McFarlan.)