1st voice: Narrator 1 2nd voice: Narrator 2 3rd voice: Father, Man 1 4th voice: Mother 5th voice: Man 2 Narrator 1: In Müssenuur, the water is far away. The people there never see the water except for when it rains. Luckily, it rains a lot. Those who grew up there have a mostly curious - sometimes despicable way of life. Increasing numbers of young people wish to leave Müssenuur out of general discontent. Very few actually know the reason for this. Those who do most often move near the sea or a river. They know that it is the lack of water that causes their fellow villager’s strange behavior. People living near the water are much nicer because it is on their minds constantly. Whenever they feel lonely or sad or upset or stuck, they will walk to see water in slow rolling, rush gushing, clap thrashing waves, or ribbon snaking, green bank marking, beer bottle carrying rivers. It will remind them of their small bodies compared to the much larger-than-life ones made of water. When they turn to leave, they will miss it so much, they will consume surprising amounts of it for compensation. Hat-tippingly, step-springingly, they will go home, greeting strangers on their phone-in-pocket, Christian-motoring way. Narrator 2: In Müssenuur, they feel quite different. They are repulsed by the sight of any sort of water because it reminds them of late-night, head spinning, walks along a raindrop drip trickling, dirt clogged creek. They were with a former loved one who had left them there among puzzled passers-by or with a partner, who realistically speaking, is likely to eventually leave them. Their fear of becoming sad has grown ever since and has turned into a repulsion of water. Nobody will even drink it anymore. Everybody has black coffee to be able to work and everybody works in order to forget. Streets are excellent, though, very few potholes. The houses are very neat too: made of red or white bricks with tiled roofs and white, burglar-defeating doors. The cars in the driveways are numerous and excessively sized. There are backyards, sparingly populated with up to three trees – council regulation. They sport patches of flowers that submitted to fertilizer under the burden of the planter’s expectations with decorative figures gratuitously loom over them. Hedges, almost as tall as the rooftops fence in their owners and keep them safe from friendly neighbourhood intrusion. In the back of the gardens, small wooden sheds with tiled roofs, arch over unused shovels, rakes, and wheelbarrows. Narrator 1: Today is different. It is early in the morning and raining. Crows pick worms, woodpeckers poke trees, a doe makes her way across two widths of empty, boringly neat, children sliding, snot wiping, fortune costing backyards into the woods and pauses at its edge. Only a few meters from where it is standing, a red, paved garden path leads to a red brick house with white, plastic framed, double glass, triple-A-plus-standard insulated windows. Behind them, there is an immaculate kitchen. If you value your time on earth, never ask Müssenuurs about their kitchens. Across the terracotta floor tiles, up a wooden, woollen feet slipping, head splitting flight of stairs, there are two rooms on opposite sides of the house that contain undercaffeinated, stirring bodies. One heaves itself off its bed. Father: “That’s it. I want to separate.” Narrator 2: Across the hall, another body is relieved of its obligation to lie still by the alarm with the ever-unused snooze button. The couple gets up to prepare for work. Most mornings, he is quicker than her to have breakfast in the wrinkle-finger, “I just cleaned that”, stainless kitchen. Today, he has already put away his dishes and is touching the doorhandle, leaving greasy prints when she carefully descends the tally-keeping stairs. Mother: “Good morning.” He never washes up after breakfast and I am the one who has to clean up after him. Father: “Good morning.” Ah, she noticed my greasy hands. That is it. I want to- “I want to separate.” Narrator 2: One leaves for work; one grips the rail. The flight is getting excited. Narrator 1: Whenever the inhabitants of Müssenuur are not working, they will refuse to sit on anything unless it has a motor: green-light honking, one-way shouting, side-mirror brushing, phone glancing, they rush around Müssenuur in circles. They rapidly pull into crowded supermarkets to fill their trunks, cutting across sidewalks carelessly to test suspension and shock absorbers. Nose over mask, they point their overweight trolleys towards the cash registers. When a new one is opened, they rush to be the first in line huffing, grunting, with low hanging brows and foreheads in wrinkles, infuriated if they do not come in first. Man 1: “I only have a few things. His trolley was full! He should really let me go in front. This will take forever!” Man 2: “Yes! The look on that guys face: priceless. Is he staring at my groceries?” Man 1: “...three crates, one bottle, coffee, ugh, who buys that kind anymore? What a complete idiot. I bet you, he has got one of those “Payback” things...” Man 2: “Excuse me, sir, give me some space here!” Man 1: “Sure, Jesus!” Man 2: “Yes, I would like those coupons please, here is my card.” Man 1: Yep, what complete, utter- “Yes, thank you, just that please.” Narrator 1: He usually pulls into the driveway before she comes home. Today is different. Today, he did the shopping because he felt bad. He even returned the empty bottles and donated the receipt to the animal shelter. As a result, turning the corner, he sees her rear lights die as the motor stops. Seeing his car approaching, she starts up again to park in the garage. He is at the door first, fumbles around his pockets. Looking up, eyes closed, he exhales sharply and returns to the car. Father: She probably saw. Mother: Christ, how can you forget to take your keys every single time? He probably left his wallet again, too. Narrator 2: She gets out of the car and opens the front door. Mother: “Hello.” Father: “Hello.” Narrator 1: He closes the door behind him. They are not used to crossing each other’s paths because usually, both come home at different times. In addition, when they built the house twenty years ago, they made sure to have enough space to account for situations like these. Father: You have got to think ahead. Narrator 2: However, today is different. They will have to share the hallway. Launching emergency protocol, they start at opposite sides of the hallway, respectively. She puts down her bags at the feet of the stairs while he hangs his coat at the far end, near the kitchen. Both continue, crossing paths awkwardly. He heads into the living room to tap his phone. She heads into the kitchen. Without any work to be done, memories of water and sadness approach and so they take extra special care that their drinks are thick, frothy, oily, smelly, or at least of a strong colour. And just as all the watercolours in the paintbox from elementary school combined made brown, their teeth turn brown as well. Narrator 2: Soon, their son visits. Mother is in the kitchen, reading. Mother: “Good to see you. Are you hungry, would you like coffee? I have biscuits.” Narrator 1: Father in the living room stares at his phone. Father: “Hi, good to see you. Would you like coffee? Or beer?” Narrator 2: The son hates being cared for. Son: “Er, no, water, thanks. I’m not hungry.” Narrator 1: He is hungry. Son: “Dorian will pick me up at half six.” Narrator 1: Five past. Father: Should I tell him? Narrator 2: Mother and son talk in the kitchen. Son: “Er, that’s really unfair of her to just go on sick leave and have you do all her work. At least she can’t annoy you while she’s gone.” Narrator 1: Quarter past. Father: I want to tell him. I need to. But what is he going to say? New message: Meet for beers at Markus’ later? Mother: “Yes, that does sound like a lot of work. Remind me... when will you have your degree?” Narrator 1: Twenty past. Father: What if he flips out? New message: In compliance with the latest regulations, we are obliged to minimize visits to protect all elderly residents as well as... Mother: “You know, your sister is very stressed at the moment as well, but she did really well in her last exams.” Narrator 1: Twenty-five past. Father: That’s it. I need to tell him. “Son!” I need to. “Son! In the living room!” But there’s no time. “Can we talk?” What am I doing!? Son: “Er. Sure?” Father: “I need to talk to you about something.” Son: “Er. What is it?” Father: “Well, I guess now, I have to tell you, don’t I.” Narrator 2: Looking up, eyes closed, he exhales sharply and for the last time considers that perhaps it was a mistake to have brought it up. But the words are already there, and they begin to boil and bubble black, oily, frothy. Father: “We are separating.” Narrator 1: Half past. Narrator 2: The doorbell rings. It’s Dorian. Narrator 1: Emergency protocol: two parts of a couple emerge from two halves of the house, meeting awkwardly in the middle again, to greet the guest, shake hands, move lips. Car doors shut. Narrator 1: Time passes, it is coming on Christmas and it is raining again. Father: “I am moving out on Wednesday.” Mother: “Do you like the food?” Narrator 1: Daughter chews Boyfriend chews They like the food. Son: “Pass the salt?” Father: “Son, you have until Tuesday to sort your things!” Mother: “I didn’t want to make it too spicy.” Narrator 1: Father doesn’t mind Daughter doesn’t mind They like the food. Son: “What!?” Father: “I told you this months ago!” Son: “You did not tell me that my stuff had to be sorted until Tuesday.” Narrator 1: Mother looks down Daughter looks down Boyfriend chews. He is from England. Father: “Now, YOU listen to me, son!” Mother: “Please don’t.” Narrator 1: Daughter is done Boyfriend is done Mother is done. Son: “NO!” “If you had told me, I would have done it. I always write down the things.” Father: “I do not have to keep reminding you. Spare me the complaints and make sure, your stuff is out by Tuesday” Narrator 1: Daughter is getting hot Boyfriend gets his book Mother leaves the room Son: “No! That’s on you.” Narrator 1: Son leaves to do the sorting. Father is upset Mother is upset Daughter is upset Everyone is upset Boyfriend turns the page Father: “This was supposed to be nice” Narrator 1: Daughter leaves Boyfriend leaves Son leaves Everyone leaves But all agreed that on Christmas, they will definitely be back and have dinner.