May 25, 2003

INT. APARTMENT - DUSK

MAOCAT, a cute but shy Chinese American barista/writer/jack-of-all-trades on the brink of turning 30, stares at his computer screen. Behind him, his dinner of stir-fried broccoli, ground sausage, and yellow peppers over rice steam on the dining table. A bottle of half-drunk soda sweats slowly next to it.

He stands up, raises his arms above his head, stretches and sighs. The interior of the apartment looks like a two-man bachelor pad. CDs spill over a small glass coffee table, scraps and food litter the dining table, and computer parts and wires lay across the floor.

Maocat looks at the wireless phone carefully placed right in the middle of the screenwriting notebook, as if taunting him to call her right now. He shakes his head, both to loosen the thought and to remind himself "no."

He pauses, switches off the computer, and sits down at the dining table. He picks up his pen, leans over his notebook, and writes.