[Lights rise on an apartment flat. A woman dressed in a horizontally stripped black and white long sleeve shirt. She has on a dark pair of tight fitting jeans and a scarf. She is mostly hidden behind an easel. She taps her foot to a beat that she alone hears. She may hum a little. She is neither grim, nor happy. She is almost apathetic, yet completely absorbed in her art. The phone rings. She lets it ring and the answering machine clicks on.]
ANSWERING MACHINE:
Please leave a message after the tone: BEEP
Hi honey, it's Mom...I'm just checking in making sure that you're okay. We haven't heard from you in a few weeks and your father and I have been worried... We were wondering if you'd like to come over for dinner...or we could go out...whichever. We know that you've been down, but honey, It'll look up, I promise. Well, call me back. Love you, buh-bye. (Click)
[The woman continues painting for a moment and then sets her brush down. She goes over to the answering machine and deletes the message. She goes over to her easel and picks up the canvas. She hangs it on the back wall. It's an image of two hands that had been holding on to each other, barely touching as they break apart. Lights fade as the woman straightens the picture.]
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