II-I. SEX, MOTELS, AND VOICEMAILS
THE MUSTY DARKNESS OF A ROOM AT 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 one was their 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 AND RINGS…
SOPHIA ROLLS ATOP HAROLD, ANSWERS PHONE.
SOPHIA: (TO PHONE) I’m busy. What do you want?
SHE LISTENS AND “UH-HUHS” ALONG, ROLLS EYES, GESTURES, “BLAH-BLAH-BLAH.”
(GROWLS) Goodbye, Oliver…
SHE HANGS UP, TOSSES THE PHONE ASIDE.
(TO HAROLD) Where were we?
SHE PAWS AND NIBBLES HAROLD.
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 POORLY) No… It’s just… isn’t this even a little fuckin’ weird to you?
SOPHIA: That’s funny…
SHE ROLLS OFF HAROLD, GATHERS HER CLOTHES.
I didn’t know that was your conscience inside me a minute ago. My bad.
SOPHIA DISAPPEARS INTO THE SHOWER.
HAROLD: (SIGHS) Goddammit.