(The living-room of a house in the mount...

(The living-room of a house in the mountains in northern California. A side-table by an empty armchair is cluttered with pills, a tv remote, books or newspapers. A woman in her sixties is standing looking out of the window. During the play she bustles about tidying this and that but her mind is elsewhere. At critical moments she stops to watch the setting sun.)

WOMAN: Another fine evening, David. A beautiful sky. Pale, pale blue with clouds like cotton candy.

Remember when we first moved here? Every evening I’d come in here to watch the sun go down. The first few times you joined me. Then you said one sunset was like any other and you had better things to do. I probably did too. But it’s an old woman’s privilege to do what she wants, especially if what she wants is to do nothing at all. Besides, why else had we moved here, if not for evenings like these? So most times I’d sit by myself and watch the day end. Only the last few months have been different, you beside me, holding my hand as the light fades and the mountains disappear.

Do you remember the first time we held hands? The Goldrusher at Magic Mountain. Our first date. I’d asked you to take me there and you were not impressed. You were a young lawyer going places and sitting on some damn roller coaster wasn’t one of them. But you took it in your stride. “Sure,” you said and took me there.

That day was so hot. You were sweating and trying not to show it. Kids all around us screaming, but I didn’t hear them. All I saw and heard was you, five foot ten, slim and handsome, quiet and polite. Pigheaded too, though it took me time to find that out. Anyhow, you waited till I was seated with my skirt tucked under me, then you got in, pulled down the safety bar and, without even asking, took my hand.

Of course other boys had held my hand. But they only wanted one thing. One hand around my shoulder, casually reaching down. The other slowly moving up my leg. None of them got as far as they wanted, although two or three got close. I didn’t blame them. I envied them. Girl or boy, your body and emotions pull you this way and that. I wanted to do what they were doing. But back then, it was hard for women. You heard all of the stories but you didn’t know what was right - right for you, right for your boyfriend or your parents waiting at home. I just sat tight and did nothing and hoped it was the right thing for me.

Foreman, Martin. Sunset, Arbery Publications, 2013, pp. 39-40.