G.I.A. is a screenplay focused around the rise and fall in friendships and the difficulties in maintaining such relationships.
The next afternoon I crawled out of my bed and away from my televisions warm enticing glow to go listen to Gia’s midnight escapades from the previous evening. She entered, her delicate, frame peeking out of her off the shoulder sweater and curvy hips swinging delightfully as she sauntered through the main foyer and into the living room. Her hair was folded messily into what looked like a half assed attempt at a pencil bun. Her skin was radiant. Though her eyes looked slightly, almost unnoticeably sunken in, they still shone brightly from behind last night’s caked mascara. She plopped her purse down on the couch and made a beeline for the fridge. She swiftly removed a bottle of Prosecco from the inside door and gracefully popped the cork with one hand while retrieving a glass from the cupboard across the kitchen. Watching Gia prepare an alcoholic beverage was the equivalent of sitting through the American Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker, music not included. Her hands moved without hesitation, her fingers handling the cork and bottle with the experience of thousands of rehearsals perfecting that one move. As she flawlessly poured the bottle’s contents into a larger glass, she looked up and saw me watching her. The look I had on my face had to be one of awe and a tiny bit of ignorance. I had just had a conversation with this individual, if you can call me shouting orders to a drunken mess over an answering machine a conversation, not even eight hours ago. Where was her hangover? Where was the loathing of bad decisions and crying next to the toilet praying for organ thieves to burst through the door and steal her stomach? How is she this up, this alert? Her eyes were inquisitive, but her mouth knew better than to ask questions. She barely batted her eyes at my facial expression.
‘So you know Tommy right? I mean that’s a psychotic name, first of all, his name is Tommy, not Thomas, Thompson or Tom, fucking Tommy. The guy is basically a Power Ranger already in my book. So, anyway, 90s contrived name aside, we’ve been getting pretty close, enjoying each other, esthetically speaking of course, no primal enjoyance has commenced as of yet. But, we have eye-fucked a couple of times, I think, maybe. So, Tommy and I are working are way up to the plate and then he pulls this bullshit! He looks me straight in the eye, like dead on, one hundred percent serious and goes ‘so, where do you see this going’ ‘this!’ like we’re some kind of thing already. I mean, we haven’t kissed, and I’m pretty sure I’m the one with the vagina, why are we even having this conversation if I didn’t initiate it. Fucking metrosexuals man, it’s like if you wanna be a bitch why don’t you lie down and take a fat one.’
At this point I laugh, cause she thinks she’s funny, I don’t find her all that hilarious, but I’ve known her long enough to know when she expects a sly chuckle or a maniacal cackle.
‘So I told him, that I would let him know once I was drunk enough to see the future’
‘But seriously, isn’t that ridiculous? I mean, we’ve barely gotten to the prize and rewards section of this and he wants to know how far we’re gonna get? I don’t even know how far I’m gonna get in the next 30 seconds’
Gia kept going on and on about the unnecessary emotional depth required to initiate a relationship nowadays. As she continued her tale she removed the pencil from her hair and unleashed her ebony tresses.