II-I. SEX, MOTELS, AND VOICEMAILS
The musty darkness of a roadside motel in some forgotten corner of Santa Ana. Harold and Sophia lose themselves in each other.
NARRATOR: (voice-over) Their first hotel room felt like a lifetime ago. This was the second room this week. Another stolen moment in a summer of stolen moments. They stole kisses at a mall like a couple of teenagers cutting class. Text messages became love notes. Love notes evolved into voicemails. Voicemails slipped into hushed late-night calls. Long drives and short make-out sessions in parking lots and malls quickly abandoned for more hotel rooms and lunch at her favorite places. And when Sophia paid with cash, Harold never asked why.
A phone rings and rings in the musty darkness.
Sophia rolls atop Harold, answers it.
SOPHIA: I’m busy. What do you want?
She listens and nods along, rolls her eyes, gestures with her hand, “Blah-blah-blah.”
(growls) Goodbye, Oliver…
She hangs up, tosses the phone aside, returns to pawing and nibbling Harold.
Where were we?
HAROLD: Everything cool?
She stops, looks at Harold as if he’s the stupidest man alive.
SOPHIA: What? Yeah, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. Why?
HAROLD: He just called.
SOPHIA: For fuck’s sake… You’re not going to start being a little bitch about this, are you?
HAROLD: (lies) No… It’s just… isn’t this even a little fuckin’ weird to you?
SOPHIA: That’s funny…
She rolls off Harold.
I didn’t know that was your conscience inside me a minute ago. My bad.
Sophia gathers her clothes, disappears into the shower. Harold sits, watches in his mess.
HAROLD: (sighs) Goddammit.