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Mona Darrington woke with a splitting headache.
She was naked.
The last thing she remembered was a strange cold, dark tom collins.
Her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Mona could make out that she was in a basement-like room. There was one tiny overhead light.
Mona sighed.
"Shit. I've landed in a Sartre play again."
Mona was an attractive woman of 25 years, with raven black hair that hung below her shoulders and she had a great body with large, round, firm breasts.
"Fat lot of good that's going to do me in a Sartre play" she said to herself.
This was the fifth or sixth play that she had landed in after drinking strange cold tom collinses. The last three plays had been Sartre plays. The only change in the originals was that each of the plays she landed in included new stage directions, each of which ended with a reference to her breasts.
She wondered why that was.
She closed her eyes and wondered if she could start over again.
Mona Darrington woke with a splitting headache.
She was naked.
The last thing she remembered was closing her eyes and trying to get out of a Sartre play.
She looks around.
There are bars maybe.
The light is strange.
A basement?
She wonders when the reference to her breasts will happen. She feels disoriented that she is not reading it already, like she has been abandoned, the script she was tired of having been abandoned.
Nothing happens.
Just as Mona was beginning to feel sorry for herself and wonder if anyone might be wondering where she was, the door to the basement
slowly opened. A man's dark outline appeared in the doorway.
"Ahhh Miss Darrington ! I see you are awake..."
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a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear
it make you sick.
-kamau brathwaite
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