She stands in the middle of the empty stage, looking around. He enters.
Him – Ah, there you are! I was looking all over for you…
Her – That’s it, the last truck has just left with the final boxes.
Him – You checked everywhere? Nothing left in the house?
Her – Nothing. Except our memories…
He places a hand on her shoulder.
Him – Come on… We’ll make new ones!
Her – Of course… But plans don’t erase nostalgia.
Him – Any regrets?
Her – No…
Him – Do you remember the first time we walked into this house, to view it?
Her – It was empty then, too.
Him – And between those two emptinesses, we lived. We filled this house. With furniture. Paintings. Children…
Her – And it filled us. With joy. Happiness. Memories.
Him – We’re taking those with us.
Her – And we’re leaving this place almost as spotless as we found it.
Him – Much cleaner, if you ask me.
Her – I wonder who’ll come next… We know nothing about them.
Him – And they’ll know nothing about us.
Her – Just as we know nothing of those who were here before us.
Him – People come and go, houses remain.
Her – Until the houses crumble too. Or are demolished. To make way for blocks of flats.
Him – Some houses are haunted by bad memories.
Her – Yes… Every house has a story. Stories.
Him – Like the story of a crime, for instance.
Her – A crime?
Him – Not all crimes happen out in the open, you know. Most are committed at home. Often within families… And when it becomes a headline, the house becomes unsellable. Sometimes, I imagine, they end up demolishing it to build a new one in its place. A house without a past…
Her – Thank you, that’s very uplifting.
Him – Who knows… Maybe this house, before us, didn’t only witness happy times.
Her – Well, we never found any skeletons in the closets.
Him – Maybe if we’d dug around in the cellar…
Her – Right… Well, in that case, I think we should get going.
Him – See? You just had to ask…
Her – Thanks… I know I can always count on you in difficult times.
They head toward the exit. She bends down and picks something up from the floor.
Him – What is it?
Her – Looks like a manuscript.
Him – A manuscript?
Her – Seems to be a play.
Him – How can you tell?
She flips through the pages.
Her – People talking, if you like. Not like a novel.
Him – I see… Dialogues…
Her – Or it could be a film script.
Him – Is it about a crime?
Her – I don’t know.
Him – It must have been wedged behind a radiator, and with the move, it fell to the floor. The paper’s completely yellowed.
Her – But it’s still legible. After all these years. Can you believe it?
Him – What is it? A comedy? A drama?
Her – We’d have to read it.
Him – Who could have written this?
Her – Someone who lived here before us, I suppose.
Him – Incredible… What if it’s a masterpiece…
Her – It could just as easily be rubbish.
Him – Is it signed?
Her – No… I can’t see an author’s name.
Him – It might be unpublished. An anonymous manuscript, can you imagine? You could sign it and publish it… You’re a publisher. For you, it’d be easy.
Her – That would be plagiarism.
Him – If the author’s dead. And no one knows they wrote it…
Her – I’ll start by reading it…
Him – Isn’t it strange?
Her – What?
Him – We’re leaving this house, and we’re taking someone else’s story with us.
Her – I hope it’s not a tragedy…
Him – At least we didn’t find a body.
Her – It almost makes me want to search…
Him – You think?
Her – Maybe the author’s buried in the cellar…
They leave.
Blackout.

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A sketch from the collection Dramedies
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