THE VOLCANIC STONE WALL
By Benjamin Gavarre
A one-act comedy of enredos, home investigations, and self-sabotage.
THE VOLCANIC STONE WALL © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
GAVARREUNAM@GMAIL.COM
CHARACTERS
- SALUA (25): Piano student. Master of self-deception, amateur life-detective, expert at flooring the gas pedal with the emergency brake fully engaged. Her mind is an endless theater where she argues, apologizes, threatens, and storms off with a falsely wounded dignity. She never says "I like you"; she prefers coded signals and intelligence ops.
- OLIVER (38): Piano professor. A brilliant, bohemian-chic musician with a three-day beard and longish hair—effortlessly artsy without looking homeless. Impeccable ear for jazz, rock, and Michael Jackson. Enjoys Salua’s pricey tuition and, above all, her free express rescue services. Mysterious, solitary—no one knows him to be with anyone. Zero percent in love, but 100% ego-driven; he doesn’t seek out admirers, but he loves the validation.
- SUSAN (25–28): Salua’s best friend. Sharp, cynical, sidewalk psychologist. She’s the only one who sees the big picture and gives Salua the brutal truth. The funny (and secret) part: she harbors an inexplicable, passive-aggressive fascination for the disheveled, mysterious musician herself.
SETTING & ATMOSPHERE
The courtyard of a Conservatory in a volcanic, artsy neighborhood (think Austin or Berkeley). At the center, a low volcanic stone wall. Urban props scattered around: sustainable organic coffee cups, folded sheet-music folders, and the constant shadow of Oliver’s studio window across the garden.
SCENE I: Operation "We’ll check his laundry if we have to" and Susan’s flawed diagnosis
(The scene opens at the volcanic stone wall. Salua is frantic, reviewing notes in her notebook. Susan vapes lazily while folding an origami alebrije figure with an expression of utter boredom).
SALUA (At top speed)
I’m telling you, today he walked right past without even glancing at the window, Susan! And that’s after I rescued his keys from the corner last week, checked if he left his coffee maker on, and even offered to inspect his apartment’s water valves. I basically ran a field intelligence operation on his house!
SUSAN (Exhaling vapor lazily)
A field intelligence operation you invented just to break into his apartment and snoop, you mean. You found a lonely dog, three mismatched and unwashed socks, a pile of mixed gym clothes you were too cowardly to inspect... and a stack of jazz vinyl. Zero proof that the guy gives a single damn about any living creature, let alone you, Salua. Toxic you, or toxic me? The guy is not interested in you, Salua.
SALUA (On the defensive)
We connect musically! We talk about jazz, classic rock, the string arrangements on Michael Jackson albums. That is intellectual intimacy, Susan!
SUSAN (Laughing dryly)
"Intellectual intimacy" is your excuse to rescue a man who smells like cold brew and whose favorite thing about you is that your hefty tuition checks fund his life while you play unpaid housekeeper. Doesn't he have a mother, a father, a brother, or an aunt to look after him? He can't just float through life like a crouton in a bowl of soup. Is he an evil mastermind?
SALUA (Crossing her arms)
He’s a musician... that explains everything. And you of all people know how we are—musicians. Or female musicians, those of us who play piano or, in your case, the weirdly massive upright bass. Yes, he has a family, but it’s painfully normal—they all live in Ohio, somewhere boring like Akron, surrounded by factories or cornfields. But he is the artistic black sheep of the tribe. The baby boy grew up to be a pianist! And since concert music doesn't pay the bills—unless you’re in a major philharmonic—here he is, giving private lessons to privileged girls whose parents can afford Mahler and Shostakovich sonatas. The two extremes, I know. But of course he’s flattered, maybe even interested... I just know it. He has to realize how much I like him, even if I don’t spell it out! I drop obvious hints: subtle subtext, questions about his cryptic lifestyle, fabricated alibis... I’ve asked him out to dinner, or just to grab tacos at the diner on the corner so he wouldn’t feel pressured to pay for me. Going Dutch! And you know what his response to all my provocations has been? Nothing! Absolutely nothing! It’s a cosmic tragedy that he’s both my teacher and my neighbor. The alignment of the stars left me no choice; it’s a literal compatibility map.
SUSAN (Interrupting her with tough, affectionate love)
Not once, the entire damn semester, have you told him: "Oliver, I like you, I have feelings for you." You know why? Because you love emotionally unavailable, mysterious men—the kind you know will never commit. That’s how you keep yourself safe. You hunt for the rejection right out of the gate so you have a foolproof excuse to bail before anyone can actually reject you. You’re a world-class self-sabotage machine, babe.
SALUA (Uncomfortable, striking back)
Oh, pipe down, sidewalk therapist! You sit there judging, but you were drooling all over yourself the day he tuned the piano wearing that faded t-shirt... and his forearms! Did you see those biceps?!
SUSAN (Turning slightly red, defensive)
I was analyzing his muscle mass strictly to figure out what kind of psychological voodoo he uses on you, don’t get it twisted! He’s fine, I guess... I give him a solid seven. A seven out of ten.
SALUA (Smiling maliciously)
Sure, Jan. Here comes your totally unappealing SEVEN right now. And don’t be a wiseass, dude.
SCENE II: The espresso and the PAINFUL AND NEUROTIC art of braking while accelerating
(Oliver enters holding a double espresso. He's wearing the same black t-shirt covered in dog hair that he hasn't changed since the beginning of the week. Seeing Salua and Susan, he gives them a warm, genuine smile—like a child who is momentarily happy before sinking back into his comfortable, familiar melancholic and suicidal-existentialist plane).
OLIVER (In a soft, slow voice)
Good morning, Salua. Hi, Susan. What a miracle to see you guys hanging out by the wall at this hour.
SALUA (Jumping to her feet, awkwardly fixing her sweater)
Our wall! Ha, ha, ha... That's a good one. Honestly, yeah, we should probably carve our names into it. We could come back in twenty years and our bodies would still recognize the shape of this volcanic stone...
SUSAN (Coming to the rescue of her friend who has totally lost her cool)
Hey there, Prof... Already on your second espresso of the day. How do you make it last? I mean... they’re just so short, the coffees... (She starts getting nervous too) I prefer a drip americano... Though, actually, I don’t even drink coffee... I’m more of a juice person...
SALUA (Realizing her friend has also caught the nervous bug caused by the handsome musician)
Well, we just wandered over near the studio because our lesson is coming up soon, remember? Right... I was telling Susan how Mahler’s non-melodic progressions are practically a magical anomaly in music history, right? Say, did you ever end up buying a new coffee maker? Leaving those things plugged in is a total hazard, but you know, some of them turn themselves off now... You just have to wait two or three hours; we have one like that at home... at my house. I heard about a neighbor who left her fridge open while she went on vacation, and the fridge overheated and her whole apartment burned down... Oh, right, you know her... She’s your neighbor too! Good thing it didn't turn into a total disaster, right?
OLIVER (Laughing naturally, completely oblivious to the privacy invasion)
I've had the new coffee maker since Friday. Makes an espresso that’s out of this world, thanks for the tip, it’s a lifesaver that it turns itself off. You know how we musicians are: we lose our keys, we leave the water running... Now that you mention it, I’ll definitely never leave the fridge open, yikes. Yeah, she's my neighbor too, the one from the fire. Good thing it didn't get out of hand.
SUSAN (Awkwardly chiming in)
Oh, Maestro Oliver... It’s such a shame you don’t teach double bass. Salua has told me you’re an amazing teacher... of piano.
(Brief, awkward silence. Susan turns bright red as the silence makes her clumsiness even more glaring).
OLIVER
By the way, Salua, your tuition payment for this month just went through. The payment, I mean... "Tuition" sounds kind of pretentious, doesn't it? Excellent. See you at the studio in a bit. (Turning to Susan, with a slightly wicked glint) Ceballos? A pleasure as always... Oh, sorry, Sontag, like the writer...
SUSAN
Call me Susan! "Sontag" sounds so formal!
(Oliver doesn't answer, just flashes a thin, ironic smile. He gives them a friendly wave in the air and strides away, sipping his coffee with total peace of mind. Susan is left with a rigid, blushing face).
SALUA (Watching him walk away)
Did you see that? So much deep context in my chat and he only talked about tuition... "The payment," he said... like he's my gas bill provider. Hey... what was that whole "Call me Susan" thing? So cringe. And don't even get me started on you mentioning the double bass... You might as well have asked him if he taught the accordion. You totally missed the mark, babe.
SUSAN (Shaking her head, half-pitying, half-mocking)
Yeah, you're right, I totally bombed. But hey, I'll take my small L. You, on the other hand... What a masterclass in public humiliation! You’re on a total emotional rollercoaster scrolling up and down. And he is not opening any doors for you; at best, he categorizes you as Employee of the Month. And as for the rest... the whole crush thing... Don't even get your hopes up. You’re not even in the friend zone. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. But whatever, that's what happens when you—the wealthy student and unpaid personal assistant of your neighbor—spend your life accelerating and slamming the brakes at the same time right in front of this handsome guy... Can't you see he's a retaining wall harder than solid volcanic stone?
SALUA (Caught between sheer rage and humiliation)
Are you done? You're right, though. Right now, in his lesson, I’m going to lay it all out. I’m going to demand a straight answer, tell him how it is, and... If he doesn’t like it, he can kick me out once and for all! I’m done playing guessing games! He needs to know how much I love him.
SUSAN (Crossing her arms with a cynical smirk)
Sure. Now you "love" him. Five minutes ago you thought he was sexy, interesting, attractive, and mysterious like he was hiding a state secret. Well, babe... I bet you ten bucks you walk into that studio, butcher half a Mozart sonata while obsessing over what his hands look like in tight jeans, get too embarrassed, ask him about his lonely dog, and run out screaming that you left your stove on back home.
SALUA (Deadly serious)
That's it. I'm marching right up to crash against my stone wall. Maybe I'll shake things up, maybe he'll realize I love him, and maybe he can love me back... (Seeing Susan's obvious look) Don't judge me. Wish me luck... Bestie.
SCENE III: The studio and the preemptive escape
(Oliver's studio. Jazz sheet music scattered everywhere. Salua is sitting at the piano, struggling awkwardly through a Mozart piece. Oliver stands nearby, trying to keep time for her).
OLIVER (Tapping his hand to the beat)
Salua, one of the reasons you pay for these tutoring sessions is so you actually look at me and pay attention. It’s a partnership, you know: I set the rhythm and you follow it. But if you won’t even look my way, I’m going to have to turn on the metronome. Today you’re way more distracted than usual—absent and tense. You keep swinging between rigid and frantic. We were making real progress and now you sound like a first-year student... Do you hear yourself?
SALUA (Reacting sharply, slamming the piano lid shut with trembling hands)
A first-year student?
OLIVER (Dropping his guitar, surprised by her tone)
I offended you... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to...
SALUA (Feeling the floor drop out from under her despite his total innocence)
Don't speak! I know I'm playing like a beginner. I'm not even... I'm not even here.
OLIVER (Clasping his hands together and running them through his messy hair)
If you want, we can take a break.
SALUA (Ironic)
A break wouldn't be bad. I actually thought you might ask what's wrong with me, if someone in my family is sick, or if I'm sick myself...
OLIVER (Cornered, forced to ask)
Are you sick?
SALUA (In a controlled explosion)
I'm sick of this! You never say a word unless you feel forced to. You just focus on the lesson, on bloody, boring Mozart... We haven't even touched "modern" music, or the Beatles like you promised. But that's the whole problem. We've been doing this for months. We've known each other ever since you moved near my place. I've been the best neighbor ever... but I sure as hell can't say the same about you. You’ve never done a single thing for me. You never tell me anything about yourself, what you think, what you want... I know nothing about your private life. All I know is you live with a dog that spends all day completely alone, poor thing. And here I am, helping you with your problems, rescuing your car keys, running over to your house to prevent a fire, lending you pots and cables... I'm your life coach, I'm your...
OLIVER (Uncomfortable)
And I really appreciate it... I've told you before, I owe you one. I owe you several.
SALUA
I've broken into your house! I've dog-sittted for you, I pay the highest tuition rates in the entire conservatory, I drop obvious hints every single damn day... And what do you do? Have you ever visited my place? Besides asking me for favors or dropping by for a cup of sugar... Have you actually sat down and talked to my parents? Have you sat on my living room couch? You treat me like I'm your live-in maid and your freshman student!
OLIVER (Blinking, genuinely bewildered)
Salua... Look, I'm sorry, but I have no idea where this is coming from. I truly value your help. You're a student with so much potential if you could just focus and relax. And I love talking with you... Didn't we talk about jazz, and the Beatles, and...
SALUA (Interrupting him, on the verge of angry tears)
I don't want to talk about jazz! I want to know if I’m anything more to you than a student who fixes your life and pays your emotional rent!
(Oliver falls completely silent. His expression shifts from confusion to profound discomfort. He runs a hand through his hair, sighs, and looks down. In that instant, Salua sees what she dreaded most: Oliver isn't interested in the slightest, never was, and now he feels trapped).
OLIVER (In a low, careful voice, trying not to hurt her while erecting a concrete wall)
Salua... You're an incredible girl. You have boundless energy. But... I live in my own world. I'm used to being alone, to my own schedule, to my own music... I never imagined my lessons were being interpreted any other way. I am just your teacher and your neighbor.
SALUA
You're not even my friend, are you? You know what? You're right. I picked the wrong teacher. You're very good, but I wanted you as more than just an instructor. And you're right, you were always crystal clear. You never chased after me, you never cared how I felt; I was always the one checking in on you, asking if you were okay, if you were feeling sick... I was wrong about you. Radically wrong. You were never anything to me, not even a friend... Let alone a... Nothing could ever happen between us, right?
OLIVER (Alarmed, taking a step forward)
Salua... (Pause) There is no "us". And I'm sorry if I made you feel or think otherwise.
SALUA (Jumping to her feet, grabbing her bag with pent-up anger directed entirely at herself)
Just stop talking! Maybe the problem is you're different... Very different from my fantasies, at least. I'm the one to blame here, I'm the one who built castles in the air. And you always gave me a hard "NO"—that couldn't be clearer. But starting today, that "NO" is permanent. Lessons end today. Don't worry about the tuition; this month is already paid, but of course I don't expect a refund. Consider it severance pay until you find a new student. Thanks for nothing, Oliver! If you ever need a cup of sugar, feel free to drop by, though I suppose the supermarket isn't too far. We can wave if we pass each other on the street—we're not enemies, after all.
(Salua storms out of the studio, closing the door with exaggerated, tense carefulness).
OLIVER (Standing alone in the middle of the studio, staring at the empty door, looking like he just survived an entirely unnecessary hurricane)
...And all I wanted to do was play the intro to Let It Be.
(Without a second thought, he walks over to the piano and plays the opening chords of the famous Beatles song).
SCENE IV: Epílogo on the street and bitter coffee
(Days later. Near the volcanic stone wall. Salua walks with a firm step but her eyes cast down. Suddenly, before she can even sit in her favorite spot, she sees Oliver walking toward her with his relaxed stride. He's wearing a fitted black t-shirt featuring a colorful Day of the Dead sugar skull, along with his eternal espresso cup. There's nowhere to hide).
(Salua's heart freezes for a second. Her instinct tells her to run away, but she decides to plant her feet with operatic dignity).
OLIVER (Stopping a couple of meters away. There is an awkward, strangely tender tension between them)
Hello, Salua.
SALUA (Chins up, wearing a fake coldness that doesn't suit her at all)
Good morning, Professor Oliver.
(They stand in silence for a second. Oliver smiles faintly, a mix of complicity and resignation).
OLIVER
Have you found a new tutor?
SALUA (A cynical little laugh escapes her lips as she shakes her head)
I'm not looking anymore. For now, I'm diving deep... into my mandatory classes... Chamber music, you know.
OLIVER
I know. Good for you... Small ensembles are where the most solid friendships are forged.
SALUA (Pointedly)
Really? I'm sure you forged some solid friendships through chamber music yourself.
OLIVER (Refusing to take the bait)
Take care of your hands when you play the piano. Good morning, Salua.
SALUA
Good morning, Oliver.
(Oliver walks past. Salua watches him walk away from behind, feeling that bittersweet sting in her chest. She pulls out her phone and scrolls mindlessly, trying not to think too hard).
(As if materializing out of thin air, Susan appears).
SUSAN (Fully in the loop)
You guys finally crossed paths... How did it go? Did you survive, or did you ruin it all over again?
SALUA
I blew it again. I said more than I should have... I attacked him. But I finally realized he's totally immune and I don't give a damn to him. Wait, no—he doesn't give a damn about me. And honestly, it's better this way. You were right about everything, Susan. You always were, and I just wouldn't listen. I was deaf, I was lovesick like a schoolgirl.
SUSAN (Trying to lighten the mood)
Babe, you are a schoolgirl.
SALUA (Laughing with a dose of dark humor)
True... But a deeply neurotic schoolgirl. I boarded my own train all by myself—tickets paid with my credit card and heavy longings, which mostly turned out to be a wish to be swept up in his strong arms. I ran after him without him even noticing. I got into my Formula One car, floored the gas pedal, invented an ideal man, a neighbor who had it all... and crashed straight into absolute indifference. Into a coldness that was never anything else. He was never interested in me, and deep down I knew it. I crashed right into the volcanic stone wall, and he—the distant neighbor—didn't even bother to turn around and look. That's just how it is, and it was never going to be any different.
SUSAN (Sighing warmly, giving her shoulder a friendly squeeze)
Kiddo, you always overthink everything. But welcome back to reality; at least it looks like you're on the road to recovery. To speed that process up—and this time without slamming the emergency brake—let's go grab a drink or two. No more than that, because we need to map out some new life strategies. Strategies that aren't fatal disasters, okay?
SALUA (Smiling, looking up at the sky)
Let's go, but walk me home first. And hey... if we happen to see a disheveled, attractive musician on the way...
SUSAN (Joining in the game)
A musician around thirty-five, bohemian look, a few days' stubble, and long hair?
SALUA
With an artistic vibe that somehow doesn't look homeless...
SUSAN
A hot musician who effortlessly looks like a walking fantasy...
SALUA (Teetering on the edge of laughter)
If you see that Roman god with his stubble and messy hair... Run! Cross the street before you get run over, walk as fast as you possibly can... and definitely, absolutely go in the opposite direction!
SUSAN (Always her ride-or-die)
Logged and noted. Come on, bestie, we’ve got a lot of rebuilding to do. Let's go.
SALUA (For the first time feeling genuinely grounded, taking a deep breath)
Let's go!
(Salua and Susan turn around and walk away side by side with firm, confident steps. In the background, Oliver smiles with his hands tucked into the pockets of an old black leather jacket, watching them go. The lighting slowly fades out to a final jazz-infused version of "Let It Be").
(Blackout).
[END OF PLAY]
THE VOLCANIC STONE WALL © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 4.0
