ABSTRACT
Woman DSR dimly lit. Dust motes spiral in a shaft of light . Something in the woman’s dress catches the light, makes it shine—extraterrestrial, intergalactical (theatre can do this). In her clavicles two pools of red wine, filled to the brim. Dark tannin, deep berry. She holds the wine as long as she can. Until she can’t. Until, eventually, inevitably, it spills. A rivulet runs down her chest, meets the silk fabric of her dress. Slows. Spreads its stain like a map. As it spills she speaks:
