At first all she can see is the typewriter, and his hands. The rest is in shadow. Solid, wide-tipped fingers, he is a methodical typist. He is at home in the space. Between letters, he moves around the room, reading, writing, working.
The light widens with every argument they have, every eye-rolling gallantry exchanged, picking out a camera, a shotgun, mementoes of the war, of a near-famous childhood. He prefers light-colored suits in the heat. He moves through the new-discovered doors to the patio, writes in the garden. His wife is often on stage with him between scenes, but she is always in the act of leaving when the lights fade up: she is a door closing, the sounds of movement in a distant room.
The house is finally, fully revealed. He is wearing light linen slacks and a loose white shirt open at the color. His hair is cut short. There is a slight curl to it. She crosses the country and the stage, knocks on the door. Alice Sheldon looks, up, his eyes wide, and the lights go down one last time.