Name Not Taken

by Madeleine Henry

She looks polished but approachable, with her silver-streaked hair in a loosely assembled low bun. Her oxford shirt is cuffed up to her elbows—the way I wear mine at home. I push that thought aside. I don’t want to feel comfortable with her and accidentally reveal too much, sending us all down a rabbit hole into my childhood traumas. Gretchen: Thanks for coming across town to my little office. Me: Richard: Thank you, Gretchen, for making the time and having us on short notice. It’s really nice of you to work us into the schedule. Gretchen: Happy to help. Why don’t we start with a little about you two. Where are you from? Me: Richard: I grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut. What about yourself? Gretchen: I’m from Florida, but let’s keep this focused on you, if you don’t mind. So, how did you two meet? Me: Richard: Devon and I met a couple years ago at a Jasper Johns exhibit. I was on the other side of the room when I saw her staring at an American flag. She was beautiful in a way that was very . . . strong. I kept checking on her, and she didn’t move. She was just standing there, staring at the painting. You know how most people in museums take a photo and move on? Or they’re in a group, sort of gliding by everything?

Why the weird screen play writing suddenly?