Act II

The tension builds in the film as a tiff escalates into a heated argument, which then escalates into a knock-down drag-out slaughter. Lights flicker as their containers sway from side to side from the impact of carelessly raised angry arms. Scattered treasured belongings can be seen strewn about the floor, as though the meaning attached to them was either absent or proven invalid. Children are herded out of the room by a distant relative whose hands cover their eyes and ears as best she can, hoping to protect them from some portion of the horror that accompanies the quarrel. They will remember something, but hopefully not everything.

As the furor continues and the children scream from the back bedroom begging the combatants to stop fighting, the camera sweeps swiftly from one party to the other. Insults are spat - the candleholder given him by his great-grandmother is hurled from the coffee table into the mirror they bought when he was stationed in Stuttgart during Vietnam. Her voice rises to a terrifically high pitch as his fist busts through the curio that he so respected, and for a brief moment didn’t.

She tells him that she never really meant the things she whispered into his ear when they were young and stupid. He retorts with an equally useless insult, stands staring with a blank expression - with the emptiest look of stupor she has ever seen in him. He collapses onto the love seat. Her eyes become red from the sudden torrent of tears, and the screen slowly blackens as she gasps for breath between every fifth sob or so.

After a silence of ten seconds, the sound of windshield wipers vainly sweeping the rain from the front window of a ten-year old truck slowly crescendos from the black. A conversation, timid but real, joins the patter of rain against the roof. The male from the altercation drives, and tells old meaningless stories about his new hometown to an unknown passenger. He is two years older than he was, and perhaps two years wiser, now realizing that the squabble from his past was but a blemish. But he is underway in his new world, and plods barely above the speed limit through the thunderstorm – just careful enough to avoid the hydroplane traps that await him. He has learned with age and experience.

What a different world from the blow-up of two years ago. Those old memories flash through his eyes from time to time. He remembers the addictive giggle from a woman whose face he can clearly remember only by consulting old pictures. He can almost taste the genius in the occasional meal she would thoughtfully construct for him. He remembers the burnt hues of a deceptively complex decorative scheme in her house and the smell of love and puppy that always greeted his nose when he went by to say hello and pass time or exchange the light-hearted minutiae of a day spent alone. He remembers the fights, but also the ecstasy of being completely understood and appreciated… and frankly misses those days. He’s glad he is where he is, but there is a thing or two he would change if he could. If only he could.