Franny Glass Doth Live in Brooklyn

Franny is laying on the oriental carpet, her head almost hidden beneath the bottom of the sofa that once belonged to her boyfriend’s grandmother.

 

BOY: I don’t understand you when you’re like this.

 

FRANNY: You don’t understand me, ever.

 

BOY: No! Franny, stop it! That is exactly what I’m talking about. How can you swing to such extremes? Just yesterday you were telling me how the cosmos knit together into a “fiber of conscious warmth” and now you’re… despondent.

 

FRANNY: I am.

 

BOY: Oh, my God. I can’t take it. I love you so much, but when you act like this you just push me away. I think you actually enjoy feeling like this.

 

She speaks through her tears.

FRANNY: How can you say that? Why would anyone want to feel this way?

 

BOY: Because you indulge it. Look at you! Come on, sit up. Let’s go for a walk. It’ll help you shake this off.

 

She places a forearm across her eyes like a cold compress.

FRANNY: I can’t.

 

BOY: You read me that article last week, the one about conditioning? It said that over time a depressed mind will come to react to feelings like this as though they were drugs. That it’s almost like you’re craving this feeling and that on some level you get a, a high from it.

 

FRANNY: You probably mean a low.

 

BOY: What? Ok, sure, fine. A low. Come on, Franny, let’s go. Here, I’ll get your boots. We’ll go to the Winter Garden. I bet all those birds will be there, happy to see you. We’ll check if anyone scattered seed today.

 

When he leaves the room, she turns her head to watch him, pausing before exhaling loudly and slowly propping herself up with her elbows as though she’s seeing the plane in front of her for the first time. Her head sweeps across the room before she pulls herself to sit, drawing her knees up. She turns to place her back against the couch as Boy enters again empty-handed.

 

BOY: I couldn’t find them.

 

FRANNY: They’re by the door.

She slides backwards up to the seat of the couch. Boy hovers in front of her, silently willing her to stand. She does.

 

Ok, let’s go.

Franny pulls on her boots, laces them slowly from a crouched position, and takes her peacoat from the coat rack. She does not turn to Boy; she simply closes the door behind her and we see in the mirror as she walks by the lack of any reflection other than her own.