About two years ago, I was at a writing retreat with some dear friends of mine who decided that we ought to spend the day writing poetry and then reading it to each other. One of those friends, a tall lanky man with glasses, had the brilliant idea to set the table with steak knives and sit us all around it. Then, he laid down on top of the table, chest-up, and read aloud an honest poem. I don’t remember the poem at all, but his performance lingered in my mind.

So I decided to write a play about it. DINNERTIME is about two desperate people on a dinner-date. Over seven courses, they deliberate about universal truth, what should and should not be edible, and attempt to solve the impossible question of love and connection.