The “love scene” from my latest screenplay, a romance titled “The Secret Affair of the Mommyblogger”:
The couple meet in his car, which is parked outside the “other” suburban Bed, Bath, and Beyond – the one the neighbors DON’T go to, because there is no Chipotle next door. The are immediately all over each other, the passion intense.
She: “I think we should put on the breaks.”
He: “And I think we should shift gears.”
She: “And I think I need an oil change.”
He: “And I think you turned on my ignition.”
She: “And I think you’ve just opened my glove compartment.”
He: “And I think I feel your airbags.”
She: “And I think we should go hybrid.”
He: “And I think your cupholder is convenient.”
She: “And I think I need a lube job,”
He: “And I think I’m going zero to sixty.”
She: “And I think we’re stuck in a fender bender.”
He: “And I think I’m overheating because of the steep incline.”
She: “And I think your timing belt needs adjusting.”
He: “And I think it is my internal combustion.”
She: “And I think you’re not watching the road signs.”
He: “And I think I blew a gasket.”
She: “And I think you stalled before I reached my destination. Hand me the GPS and I’ll get there myself. Then I need to pick up the kids from day camp.”
