Those Three Magic Words

“Remember, don’t  say those three words or the name of the Scottish Play,” I said.  

“But, why?   We’ve been dating for three months and I . . .” She said.  

“Don’t say it,” I said, “And you know why . . .The Spell”.

“Thesbians are weird.   There is no spell.   Nothing’ll happen if I say . . .” she said.

“Let’s talk about something else, please.  How about those Eagles?” he said.  

“I’m not into sports and you know that,”. She said.  

“Okay, what subject do you want to talk about?”  he asked.  

“I want to talk about why we can’t say I . . .” she said.  

“No.   What other subject?”

“Right.  Like what’s your major?   What do you do for a living?   Maybe where are you from?   Oh, wait, we’ve been dating for five years so we already know all this stuff.   Or maybe why, since we’ve dated each other for five years, why the hell we can’t say,” she said.  

“Funny.  And you know why and it isn’t that I don’t, because I do, but we can’t say it to each other until after the play,” he said.  

“Right.  You’re a moron,” she said.  

“No, but we both know what’ll happen,” he said.   

“You mean you know what’ll happen.  What’ll happen is a ‘Gnab Gib,’ just ask Adams,” she said.  

“No, it won’t.    Listen, the play’ll be over in four months,” he said.  

“Right, four months, unless it goes to Broadway, then we’ll never be able to say it,” she said.  

“ Let me think, let me think.   Maybe we could come up with a different set of words that means the three words we can’t say, then we could say,” he said.

“Other three words, huh??  That’s a great idea.  How about, ‘You’re a moron,” she said.  

“Very funny.   Very funny.  We could.  Maybe you’re not understanding” he said.  

“Oh, no.   I understand.  As I said, ‘You’re a moron,” she said.  

“Want to hear a monologue?” he asked.  

“Not ready.   I want you to be a mature adult.  We’ve been dating for . . . We’ve already been through this, now mature adults say, I . . .”

“Not if they’re actors they don’t,” he said. 

“ Right.  All actors are morons,” she said, “just like you”.  

“No, most actors are superstitious, like me,” he said.  

“As I said,” she said.  

*

“Are you breaking up with me?

“If you don’t say, ‘I . . .”

“Why are you so obsessed with this?”

“Why are you so obsessed with both of us NOT saying this” she asked.  

“Shit,” he said.  

“What happened?   Your testiicles fall back into your sack? Or maybe God just gave you a brain or vocal cords so we could speak like normal couples” she said.  

“ I don’t think it’ll go to . . .”

“I don’t think so, either.  At least we can agree on that,” she said.  

“Do you remember how we met,” he asked.  

“No shit, Sherlock.  Or are you in a play by Wallace, now?”  

“Very funny.   You want me to quit the play, don’t you,” he asked.  

“Does a bear shit in the forest” she asked.  

“I’d have to think about it . . .” he said.  

“Where the hell else would a bear take a shit?   At a 7/11?” she asked.  

“Are you being sarcastic” he asked?

“No, really?” she asked.  

*

“You want to get married?” she asked.  

“That’s ass backwards.  The guy is supposed to ask his woman,” he said.  

“Ok, then why don’t you?” she asked.  

“I don’t have a ring,” he asked.  

“You’re so old fashioned,” she said.  

“And you’re so new age,” he said.  

This plot is going nowhere slow, the author said, but the reader already knows that.  

“

“You’re moving out?” he asked.  

“Yes,” she said.  

“Why?” he asked.  

“Because you won’t say it,” she said.  

“And I’m the one who’s superstitious and believes in bullshit?” he asked.   

“You’re full of shit,” she said.  

“And you’re not?” he asked.  

“You’re an asshole,”

“You like bad boys and actors,” he said.  

“Correction, I liked bad boys and actors.”

“What happened?”

“I dated superstitious morons,” she said.  

“And I dated sentimental idiots.  Is it the estrogen?”   He asked.  

“Men have estrogen, too, moron.,” she said.  

“I got a steady job.  Well, for three months I do, unless,” he said. 

“To get on Broadway, you’d need to get great reviews from newspapers like The New Yorker or the Times” she said, “and you’re on Off Off Broadway.   You’re a loser,” she said.  

“I thought you were into losers,” he said.  

“I was.  Digging into the bottom of the goddamn barrel, but I’ve matured since then,” she said.  

So, I can see this story is going nowhere.   No one cares about the man or the woman and it’s a piece of shit.  Duh.  But, human relationships are three-dimensional and this story is two-dimensional.   Now, I could make up excuses like I didn’t get enough sleep last night, the prompts were pieces of shit, my schedule was more packed than a sardine can, but my guess is the reader cares less about me than the two flat characters who said the same shit over and over (“monotonous, isn’t it) with no plot line.   Hell, a piece of porno literature at an adult shop has more of a plot than this does, but I followed the directions and didn’t use this fucking word.  Maybe I should’ve picked one of the other prompts.  I don’t know.  

      But maybe the reader doesn’t care.  Hell, who does?   Maybe I should’ve made it into a short short or a play, or a micro play or maybe it should go in the shredder or be used as starter fluid.  But, sometimes pieces of shit are worth something years later like Gertrude Stein’s “Stanzas in Meditation,” which was also a piece of shit.   But, it got published and college professors loved it.  How do you read this?   Or those important self published authors.  If people are rejected from a publisher, there’s probably a reason why.  But, sometimes pieces days I’m in the zone, but today is not one of those days.  Still need to call my girlfriend back and tell her those three words.   It is Valentine’s Day.  

     But, are you single?  Are you happy?   Are you married?  Are you happy?   Do you have children?   Are they happy and/ or are you happy?   Good.  

    Look, I just broke the fourth wall.  No, wait, that’s acting, not writing.  Shit.