Marco: Steve, hand me that portfolio, will you? I was glancing at Maestro Tortellini’s new top-secret ornaments for that Arne masque, but I promised I would return it to him this evening.

Steve: Oh, I saw Tortellini out in the audience. I’ll go take the score to him.

Marco: Thank you, Steve.

Bertie: You mind if I say something? If there’s anybody in opera more temperamental than Fiorenza Cossotto, that’s an early music specialist. They only have two jobs: create ornaments and yell at people to stop using vibrato.

Marco: Oh. Oh. [rushes into the hall, where he finds Steve sight-reading the score.]

Marco: Steve... I think we’d better let the Maestro pick it up himself...

Wordlessly, Steve brings the score to Marco.
We notice a Kinko’s bag sticking out of Steve’s backpack.

Marco’s bedroom, morning. He’s staring at the screen of his laptop.

Marco: Bertie, you don’t like Steve, do you?

Bertie: No, he’s a bitch like that skank Rosa that works down the street at the coffee shop.

Marco: But, why, Bertie? Steve works hard. He’s loyal and efficient.

Bertie: Like a pimp with only one hustler.

Marco: He thinks only of me…doesn’t he?

Bertie: He thinks only about you, anyway... like you was a book or a score or a pirate tape he was dubbing: how you walk, talk, think, sleep, trill.

Marco: I’m sure Steve’s just being flattering. There’s nothing wrong with it!

Steve: Good morning! Well--what do you think of my new outfit?

Marco: Very becoming. Looks better on you than it did on me.

Steve: You know all these jeans needed were a little taking in at the waist, letting out in the crotch...are you sure you won’t want them?

Marco: Quite sure. I find that look just a bit too---too Abercrombie and Fitch for me....

Steve: Oh, come now, as though you were an old troll.

Marco: Steve.... by any chance did you send Will an instant message from my laptop yesterday?

Steve: Oh, golly. And I forgot to tell you. Well, I was sure you’d want to, of course, it being his birthday, and you’ve been so busy the past few days, and last night I meant to tell you but I guess I was asleep when you got home. Mr. Crampton’s birthday! I certainly wouldn’t forget that. You’d never forgive me. As a matter of fact, I sent him a strip-o-gram myself.

And he’s gone. Bertie, without comment, goes out.
Marco, alone, looks down at his egg-white omelette.

to be continued...