The lights fade. The stage is set in typical living room decor and a well-preserved middle-aged woman (Concerned Mother) is sitting on the worn yet decent patterned couch that is all but identical to the one occupying the majority of the audiences' houses. She is paging through a magazine or a newspaper, stopping periodically to read a sentence or two, but on the whole, interested more in the process of turning each page to the next than in actually finding out what the periodical has to say. It is late evening and all is quiet, save the sound of pages fluttering determinedly. A young woman (Jessie) enters stage left, a daughter who has obviously just returned from the day's spoils. She plops down on the couch opposite her mother and waits, unconcerned, for the questions she knows are waiting quietly to be asked. She is playing with a bit of loose thread or a corner of her shirt and glances curiously at her mother, who continues her methodical page turning. No words are spoken, although it is not an uncomfortable silence. Finally, impatient to share some important bit of news from the day, the young woman takes a deep breath and slouches in her seat, quitting the nervous fiddling that had occupied her fingers. The mother looks up questioningly at the girl.

Jessie: "So... they need me to work from 3 pm to 11 pm because they don't have enough computers for me to work during the day."

Concerned Mother: (Putting down her reading material. She has long been

patiently holding her questions for just such a moment to arrive) "Well, isn't there any way you could work earlier? It's just so...late. Your father wanted to know what kind of security they have--if and when they lock the doors. (And then rapidly) Is the parking lot close by, well lit? And do they have security guards? That part of the highway is just so dangerous ... I just don't know about this, Jessie. (Long pause) We might have to go and check it out."

J: (Sitting up a bit straighter, now more alert and confidently prepared for this attack) "This is the only way I got the job, Mom. If I could work nights. I really don't mind it. And they lock the doors at 5 when everyone leaves and it's in a really nice, safe part of town. And I work with this guy Zach, who's pretty nice. It's not like I'm going to be alone or anything."

CM: (The page turning has reacquired her attention, but this time she pays even less attention to the contents of the pages) "Hm." (A silence, as the mother considers what she has just heard, though she had already assumed most of it to be true. Suddenly, her eyes take on an eerie glimmer) "This Zach. How old is he?"

J: (Slouched once again, and obviously relieved, as her defense has seemingly worked with no need for the expected defense of the defense. She is a bit surprised at this slight turn of the conversation and almost misses the question in her awe at the complete simplicity of the anticipated debate.) "Uh, he's 25."

CM: (Page turning pauses in mid-turn) "Oh. And is he handsome?"

J: (Confused at the blunt change in intentions of the conversation and unsure now as to the object of the questioning) "Uh. I guess... sure."

CM: (Page turning reassumed) "Well, good. At least you'll have something to do all those long hours alone in the office."

J: (Looks sharply at her mother to see if she has heard her correctly and realizes shockingly enough that the comment was not said in jest, but in all seriousness and with an edge of something. Relief? Satisfaction? The young woman is unsure and entirely confused at what has just transposed. Unable to decide, she slowly stands and walks dazedly out of the room, stage left.)

The stage lights dim and the curtain closes.