She stands upstage, looking out a window. Suddenly, she pauses, turns downstage, and and squints out into the darkness. The fourth wall. Is gone. The window is fake, she says. (She talks to you about herself in the third person.) She is creating the story as she goes, she confesses, and is afraid to say another word. Silence from the audience. And a cough. She hasn’t figured out the second act yet. (Clearly, she’s gone off-script. The stage manager must be shitting his pants.) Can you imagine? The second act. Can you imagine the second act? She hasn’t decided, she says, whether it should be a continuation of the first. She hasn’t decided, she says, what tropes she will pull out of her pocket. She hasn’t made up her mind, well... It’s time for intermission. Go get bad coffee, a charity cookie, and come back in 20 minutes. House lights up. You stand, stretch your legs, excuse me, pardon me, Follow loafers and heels on red carpet into the lobby. Is this supposed to happen? you wonder. (Does it matter?) Confusing low mumbles reverberate off the plastic wine glasses. Will there even be a second act? Of course there will. She will stick around, even though we all know how it ends.