Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. “The Wrong Name” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch.

Author website:  https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/

Yvette and John Talk Love and Sense

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

YVETTE MARTIN: Fifty-one years old, very attractive, with great legs. She wears a black sun dress and a chic straw sunhat.

JOHN STAFFEN: Fifty-three years old, handsome, a professional actor by trade. Lover to Yvette Martin.

SETTING: An open deck overlooking the Charles river. A single wrought-iron table and two chairs. The sun is setting in the West beyond the river. 

AT RISE: YVETTE, sitting at the table shading her eyes from the setting sun. Enter JOHN (from interior) carrying two glasses of wine. He approaches YVETTE’s table.

YVETTE: Where have you been, John, stomping the grapes yourself?

JOHN: Patience, My Love. Good wine must breathe, and this is very good wine.

YVETTE: Patience is not one of my virtues. You know that. I thought you were going to miss our first-anniversary sunset.

JOHN: Never. And technically, it’s our first anniversary of round two.

YVETTE: I’d stick to the present round if I were you. Your track record from round one was not the best. I am the empress of this little realm, and I declare a new calendar. Yvette and John, Year One. The past does not exist.

(John sets the wine glasses on the table and sits beside Yvette. They gaze out at the sunset.)

JOHN: How about our dear dead friend Harry? Does that slice of the past exist?

YVETTE: Of course, my handsome devil. The day we met, Day One of Year One, Harry’s wake. You wormed your way back into my heart with wine and a hypothesis about the science of grieving.

JOHN: I remember the wine and the hypothesis, but it was you who called the taxi that spirited us away.

YVETTE: Someone had to do it. The potential energy was obvious. The two of us meeting after sixteen years, a dead friend to provide the commonality, and alcohol to lubricate our tongues. All I did was release the lever that turned potential energy into kinetic energy. 

JOHN: Ever the scientist.

YVETTE: That’s because I am a scientist, John. All those cute letters after my name?

(John takes a long drink of wine, shades his eyes with one hand, and contemplates the sunset. Then he turns to Yvette.)

JOHN: Then as a scientist, what is the scientific basis of love?

(Yvette waves a hand as if batting at a fly.)

YVETTE: Human behavior. That’s squishy science at best. I’m not a psychologist.

JOHN: And I’m very glad you’re not. But seriously, I’ve been reading some scientific articles on the nature of love. It’s interesting stuff.

YVETTE: Let me ask you something, John. Do you love me?

JOHN: Madly, still.

YVETTE: Good answer, and good to know. Even better, I love you. But can you explain the hard science of love? Measure this, collate that, demonstrate cause and effect.

JOHN: I’m an actor. You’re the scientist, remember? This team of researchers broke love down into three categories. I think it was lust, then attraction, followed by attachment. And there were hormones associated with each phase.

YVETTE: Sure, the brain gets stimulated and produces hormones.

JOHN: Right, testosterone for men, estrogen for women.

YVETTE: But that’s just simple lust, something you should be all too aware of given your past behavior with script girls. 

JOHN: Guilty, but you’ve reformed me.

YVETTE: Nicely played, even if it’s not true. But what is lust? A woman sees a tall man with muscles, the signs of a good hunter. A man sees boobs, child-bearing hips, the traits of someone who can carry on his seed. Simple biological behaviors are triggered. But lust does not equal love.

JOHN: How did I end up arguing on the side of hard science?

YVETTE: I may be a scientist, John, but I’m also a woman and a romantic. I can’t define romance in a scientific way, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to deny its existence. Which leads us back to the squishy bits.

JOHN: Squishy bits as in human behavior or anatomy?

YVETTE: You know I adore your squishy bits, but I was talking about the soft science aspect, the psychology of love.

JOHN: I’m getting lost here. Give me an example.

YVETTE: Let’s take the chicken and egg question. I see an attractive man, yourself for example, and he triggers a response in me. What comes first, the estrogen or the lust? Does lust trigger estrogen or the other way around? Science doesn’t explain the trigger itself, the thing we call the spark. You know, seeing a stranger across a crowded room, ignoring all the others. Why?

JOHN: Do I still trigger a response, Yvette?

YVETTE: Yes, your male ego can relax. The response is triggered on a daily basis. But let me ask you this. When you saw me at Harry’s wake, one year ago this very day, what was the trigger that made you come to my table, a glass of wine in hand as a peace offering? You took a big chance there, buster.

JOHN: And I’m glad I did because here we are.

YVETTE: Right, but you’re dodging the question.

JOHN: I don’t think that’s a good example. We had a history. And I still loved you, even after sixteen years apart.

YVETTE: You’re right, although your answer illustrates another aspect of the mystery of love. Use your time machine and travel back to the first time you saw me. What do you remember?

JOHN: A cast party. You were with someone else. I was playing a supporting role, part of the background scenery. No one you would want to talk to. But then we found ourselves standing together. You were wearing a little black dress that showed off your great legs.

YVETTE: So it was my legs that did it?

JOHN: Don’t rush me, that wasn’t it. Let’s see. A struggling actor and a beautiful scientist whose star was on the rise. Plus, you were dating the director or somebody. It shouldn’t have gone anywhere.

YVETTE: One of the producers, actually. Boring guy, as it turned out. But go on.

JOHN: There was something else, something powerful. I can’t really define it. It was more than a trigger and spark is such a simple word. Looking into your eyes, hearing your words, I think what I felt was a possibility. Does that make any sense?

YVETTE: Yes it does. Sense is a good word. The sensibility of love, rather than the science. I don’t need a time machine to remember that night. There was some powerful chemistry going on, but not in the scientific sense. That’s why I went home with you and the producer went home alone.

JOHN: Poor him, lucky me. Sensibility versus science.

YVETTE: Well, I would never underestimate the role of luck when it comes to love. But that’s a whole other discussion. Right now, we’ve narrowed it down to sensibility versus science.

JOHN: Define sensibility.

(Yvette reaches for a smartphone that rests on the tabletop.)

JOHN: Cheater.

YVETTE: Gathering accurate reference material is not cheating. Here we go. Sensibility: The quality of being able to appreciate and respond to complex emotional or aesthetic influences.

JOHN: Damn, that’s good. So, the night I met you, I was responding to a whole range of emotions, not to mention your fine aesthetics. Which are still mighty fine.

YVETTE: Thank you, John. I’m glad you like them. Now, back to our discussion. Care to take a stab at science versus sensibility? You know, compare and contrast.

JOHN: Hmmm. Science tells me that the Zombie Apocalypse is impossible. Sensibility tells me that it doesn’t hurt to be prepared for it.

(Yvette laughs out loud, shaking her head.)

YVETTE: You see? Your true romantic side comes bubbling to the surface.

JOHN: Wait, remind me how I ended up arguing on the side of science? You’re the scientist.

YVETTE: Right, but you brought up the magazine articles, the nature of love, or am I misremembering?

JOHN: I doubt you ever misremember. Woman scientist, not likely.

YVETTE: Sheath those claws, big boy. No need to be catty. You wait until I’m old and dotty. I bet I’ll forget plenty.

JOHN: Try not to forget me.

YVETTE: As if I could, John. Sixteen years apart and yet we end up back together. There’s more at work here than hormones.

(A pause. John reaches to stroke Yvette’s neck. They smile at each other.)

JOHN: I’m withdrawing myself from the science bit. What is it that judges do?

YVETTE: They recuse themselves. But then I have no one to argue the point with. That’s not fair.

JOHN: No, because I intend to introduce a new element to explain how you and I became us. Again, I mean.

YVETTE: Let me guess. Harry died so we could be together?

JOHN: That puts a very strange slant on the salvation story. And if Harry were alive, rest his stained soul, he’d be laughing like hell. No, I was thinking of something simpler. I’m calling us a miracle.

YVETTE: Look at you, talking romantic miracles to a scientist. That’s well-played. You put me in a tough spot. As a woman, I’m duty-bound to stick up for romance, but as a scientist, I believe only what I can observe.

JOHN: Score one for Team Penis.

YVETTE: Are you really jumping from romantic miracles to Team Penis?

JOHN: Sorry, guy thing. And you’re stalling.

YVETTE: I’m hedging my bets. Look at the sunset. That’s a miracle. Science explains the phenomena that paint the sky amazing colors, but I’m not convinced science can explain the beauty of a sunset. 

JOHN: Yes, it’s beautiful but not as beautiful as you.

YVETTE: Is that John Staffen or Team Penis talking?

JOHN: Both, but at the moment, romance is in the lead.

YVETTE: Nice. We can let biology run rampant after dinner.

JOHN: I love running rampant with you. But I’m not done with the idea of miracles. So many people are unlucky in love. I’ve suffered my share of bad luck and I caused most of it. You were the best thing that ever happened to me and I screwed it up. Sixteen years later, we meet again and I’m gifted a second chance. That, for me, is a bona fide miracle.

YVETTE: You are a very sweet man, John Staffen, and I love you very much.

JOHN: There, you see? That trumps science and kicks sensibility in the ass.

YVETTE: Aren’t you forgetting something?

JOHN: Sorry, I missed my line. I love you, Yvette Martin. That is something I will never forget, even when we’re both old and dotty.

(A pause. John and Yvette hold hands while watching the last of the sunset.)

YVETTE: Happy first anniversary, round two.

JOHN: Happy anniversary. Here’s to a very long round two.

(John and Yvette raise their glasses, clink them together, and drink.)

END