Won’t Make It to Sundance
Exterior. Night. Fade in from black to show me sitting on a lawn chair in a backyard, contemplating a bonfire before me. I’m at a party. Around me are people dressed for the summer. I’m wearing an ill-fitting blue sweater and a maroon shirt that doesn’t match. I look uncomfortable, but it’s not because of my clothes. The camera pulls out to show that sitting beside me is my ex.
I’m not sure what circumstances or social obligations led to her being invited to my best friend’s party. All I know is that, ever since our breakup, my life feels like an indie movie. It’s pretty appropriate, considering how much I love that genre. There are more than enough films from the past decade to fill the hole in my broken teenage boy heart. I can watch (500) Days of Summer and say that I’m “understood”. I can watch Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and say that I’m “ready to move on”. I can watch Scott Pilgrim vs. the World and say, “That was really good, I love Edgar Wright.”
Cut to a close-up of her, curled up on her own lawn chair. She’s a little bit stoned. She looks at me in a way that’s part shy, part contemplative, and mostly sad. She asks if she could just hold my hand for a bit. Cut back to me. I’m not looking at her, but I also can’t find any thing to say. I’m sober, which is why I have no excuse as to why I grumble, “Sure”, and offer my hand. I guess the scene just requires more emotional tension.
Cut to a medium shot of the both of us, staring into the fire and holding hands. We sit this way for a while as everyone around us either doesn’t notice or doesn’t want to address it. It might make for good gossip in our high school hallways come next fall, but everyone’s so drunk or stoned I’m fairly certain they don’t care. I care. Zoom in on me looking very upset. Show a close-up of our hands as she begins to stroke the inside of my palm with her fingertips.
My best friend walks by. I pull my hand away and ask her where the bathroom is even though I already know. She shows me the way. When we’re away from the party she asks what’s up with my ex and if everything’s okay. I tell her I don’t know, and, I think so. I head to the washroom and do nothing but look at myself in the mirror with an existential expression on my face. The whole shot makes for a perfect poster for a movie like this. I head back to the party and sit in a different chair.
When it comes time for me to go home my ex follows me to the bus stop. She tells me she misses me and asks me to forgive her. Flash forward to a montage of us getting back together multiple times, and me telling her that I was an asshole and that she did nothing wrong. Or, don’t; cut to me looking at her darkly and telling her no. Cut to her crying and me doing nothing about it. I ask her about the guy she’s dating, a guy from our drama class (of course) that I’m friends with and actually like. Really, “dating” is too heavy a word to use — years from now I’ll hang out with him at other parties and not even remember they dated until I think back on this night. She mumbles something non-committal. I scoff and finally look at her.
“He thinks he can save you,” I say.
Wait, really?
That’s the line I’m going with? That’s what I say? That doesn’t even make sense. Can I get a rewrite on that? Can I get a rewrite on this whole thing? No?
Fine.
Pan the camera to show the bus as it pulls up. She leaves, either to head back to the party or to walk home. I get on the bus and sit down. Cut to a close up of my face, dejected and tired. Fade to black. Roll credits as some Arcade Fire knock-off band plays a song that hipsters will say they loved way before they heard it in this shitty movie.
Way It Was is a writing project and ongoing attempt to work through a lot of relationship related shit. Find out more about it here.
