Obadiah’s Third Part

Obadiah took a deep breath and entered from stage left. The white-hot lime blinded him, but his courage did not falter.

“My sweet summer corn, I know that there is nothing a humble farmer like myself could offer you that compares to the opulence you’re accustomed to, yet I must risk everything for even the small chance that you could find it in your heart to forgive my provincial oafishness.

“Beautiful, lovely Dorothy, you are the sun which nourishes my hearth’s growth. You have taught me to sow tenderness and reap joy. I would work the land tirelessly for generations in the heat of midsummer’s sun for even a fleeting moment with you under the stars at harvest. I was a fool—indeed, wiser is the one who startles a horse from behind.

“I acted out of fear. Fear that you could never love me. That I would not be enough for you. Now I see that a life apart from you could never be enough for me. So I lay myself on your mercy. If you do not love me, I shall leave you and return to my fields heartbroken, but better for having known you. But oh… if you do love me, oh! How I crave to spend my years loving and being loved by you.”

The audience gasped. Tears filled Dorothy’s eyes and a smile spread across her face. She dove into Obadiah’s arms.

“Who the hell are you?” the director asked, his debut play ruined.