"Something of the Ink that resembles the stain from the interior emptied into emptied upon this boundary this surface. More. Other. When possible ever possible to puncture to scratch to imprint. ... Of its body extension of its containment."

Theresa Hak Kyung Cha, Dictée 

MAN stage left. WOMAN stage right. Both dressed simply in black.
They stand at two music stands, reading from their letters.
Beginning of play through end, they do not look up, at audience or at each other.

How these marks on a piece of paper are meant to suffice, I don't know. But when I read your words, I will try as best I can to hear you saying them.

This is the picture I have of you in my mind's eye now. As we waited at the airport for you to board your flight: A comfortable thin brown linen blouse. A broad flowered skirt reaching to your ankles. A pair of black leather heels. And of course your face. With my eyes I traced the triangle of your cheeks and your chin, and traced your slightly parted lips, with my eyes. Clasped in one of your hands a valise.

And as you turned to walk away I caught sight of your departing figure, thin, your heels clicking on the hard floor, wondering again why you so torture your feet in those shoes, wishing you only comfort and peace. I also wondered where, under what circumstances, I would see you again.

This picture of you is not the only one, but it is the freshest because the most recent: You, departing. I should have taken a picture of you then, but I know you would have blamed me for whatever spirit my camera would have sucked from you. How these black marks on white paper are supposed to stand in for you, for a simple snapshot I can't believe you deny me, I can't say. I can say this: I can bear in my mind the shape of your thin shoulders, the flow of your hair down the back of your neck, as you left.

I hope your flight was pleasant and without incident.
 

This is where we differ most, you and I, and yet I miss you so.

I will have you know that I am in flight still from all those mechanisms that bind us to each other so synthetically, all those wires in phones and computers, and I confess no pleasure in thinking my face reproduced, even for you, I have no picture of you either, I remind you, and that is because when I close my eyes and reach out to your face I don't want my fingertips to touch glossy photo paper but your much more fragile skin, and I want to put no barriers to my memory of it, I can only hope that one day you will understand me.

I enclose a strand of hair if you need something of me to look at, something of me to touch, if you hold it up to the light you will see its sandy color reflected in the light, perhaps that will remind you of my hair as I left you, you saw it over my neck, I felt it brushing against my cheek, we thought of the same thing and I continue to think of you, especially as I lie awake and alone in my bed at night.

The hour is late as the hour was late when I first truly saw your eyes under the streetlamp, I can see your eyes still, even without a photograph, and like you I trace the shape of your lips with my eyes.
 

As you mentioned, the streetlamp. How easy for you, how difficult for me, to abstract the source of the yellow light, from the buildings and streets and passing cars and busses and taxis that flowed by. The light veiled your white face in a yellow glow.

You murmured something.

I murmured something back.

As you can see it's no good. I can't remember the words now, they've faded already. But I can hear your voice, like a sonata, through the words, the sound of your breath through your lips was the important thing that drew me to you.

And you to me. Perhaps.

And so we overcame our reluctance and our urge to restrain ourselves and finally embraced, restraining each other in our arms. We walked off up the street together, you and I, entering the light of one lamp, passing through it. Then entering another. And at some point you slipped your hand under my arm, joining us together.

Of all this I am sure. I used to be certain of the month, even the day, as well. It was winter, of that I'm sure. December or January or February, of that I'm not sure. And now, I confess, I'm not even sure it was winter any more.

Maybe a late October night. A very chilly late October night.

So as you can see I am asking that you reconsider, that you have a picture taken and send it along to me. I promise you that it won't be at my desk at work, or in a frame on my bedside table. I will keep it in a safe dark place, and look at it only when alone, in private.

I keep the strand of your hair similarly hidden from other eyes.
 

And I hope you will forgive me, but when I look into a mirror I still see you reflected in my face, if when you look into a mirror you do not see me there, I hope you will look harder.

What city we were in I don't recall, or what town, maybe on a deserted road somewhere as we walked, the trees having no more meaning to me than those awful buildings of yours, but it was night, it was dark I can remember, and yes I remember crossing from one circle of light into another, trying to imagine what you felt like then slipping my hand under your arm and knowing.

Midnight, one o'clock, no stars beyond the clouds, was it New York or Chicago or Tokyo or Paris I don't know, such a sad worthless tie to our places we have, and the people around them, and our families, and ourselves, I gave myself up to you in that moment our skin glanced against each other, only later did I open myself to you fully and I entered you, to see with your own eyes, touch me with your own fingers.

What more can I suggest to you when I say to see me look at yourself, better, close your eyes entirely and lie down quietly and do not move and I will slip in next to you in the dark as you join me when my eyes are closed, in the dark.

I want to let you know that in this country I am fine, I am well-liked and everyone likes me, or seems to, and I draw little attention to myself and that's fine by me, it's the way I like it and I'm working very very hard.
 

I don't know what you're talking about. As I hold your hair up to the light I begin to see some decay in it. It's lost some of its spring.

I don't know what you're talking about.

I found the darkness in your room that night reprehensible, even afterwards, even after I felt the contours of your body next to my own. I must be dense, please forgive. My eyes reached for the dim city lights that seeped into your window, but they fell not on you but the floor. I couldn't see your body.

I find time erasing the memory of our night together as the air is eroding that talisman of you, that memory of you. Time passes. Were you together with me, that night? Did I feel your hand under my arm or was that just a jostle or even a wind that I, that my arm misinterpreted? I could easily have imagined the whole thing, as I imagine so much else, and I feel that your last letter dragged me almost into your psychosis, or would, if I could understand it.

But I don't know what you're talking about.

So was I there. Were you there. Did our feet settle very near each other, touching, at the restaurant or is that too a figment of my imagination, my faulty memory. I fear that there is a part to this experience that is missing now, that time has destroyed, and maybe what I am saying is that there may have been a moment when our desire was on the verge of turning to love.

But without that certainty I have no tools with which to investigate the moment.

Perhaps you could be more clear in your next letter. Please enclose a photo.
 

In Private was first performed with In Public in a workshop production at manhattantheatresource, New York City, October 23-25, 2005. Performed by Abe Goldfarb and Jennifer Gordon Thomas; directed by Isaac Butler; stage manager: Matt Quint.