December. Late evening.

Pantelis Melissinos—fresh from giving his staff a month off—is in lockdown mode inside his art and sandal atelier, where sandals and colorful artworks—featuring uncensored Greek mythological nude scenes not meant for prudes—pile up in glorious chaos.

Just as peace seems possible, a fiftyish, overproduced, glam platinum-blonde lady knocks on the shop’s glass door.

It’s Jane—a Park Avenue socialite.

JANE (from behind the glass door):
Pantelis, Pantelis, darling!
Open the door—quickly, before my mind resets to airplane mode!
I just landed!

PANTELIS (thinking to himself):
Ah. Jane. My recurring Upper East Side muse— a blast.
She doesn’t just visit—she takes you hostage.
I should’ve gone invisible—joined the installation and stopped blinking.

(to her)

I am three minutes into a four-week period of rest, repair, and denial.
The spirits have been dismissed.
The lights are asleep.
And I have emotionally left the country.

JANE:
Open the door. Don’t do this to me.
I survived a long bumpy plane ride to see you—
turbulence so bad my butt lift is no longer symmetrical.

My surgeon would call it modern art.

Every minute you stall—
my boobs droop…
and nothing this expensive belongs in the basement.

PANTELIS (thinking):
I open the door.
Have a show—with snacks
and an aftertaste of a nervous breakdown.

Man, she’s wacko.
But—
Theatrically, invaluable.
Box-office gold.

JANE (face pressed against the glass door):
I’m jet-lagged, bloated, and emotionally bleah!

PANTELIS (unlocking the door reluctantly):
Hey Jane.
Ahead of your visits, I’m done being a playwright.
After, I’m alone writing a sketch—
with you in it.

JANE:
Hi, honey. Thanks for opening.
Did I tell you I’m apparently single?

My husband disappeared—

—along with my Louis Vuitton, which honestly hurts more,
because at least the bag held me when I was crying.

I mean, really—first the husband disappears, then the handbag?
What is this, a pattern,
or is my subconscious calling an Uber to flee past decisions?

PANTELIS:
Interesting… did you marry the man, or the bag?

JANE:
The husband.
I wear him to events—
neutral tone, goes with everything.
Coordinates with my bags.
And he pays.

PANTELIS:
So… he’s functional.
Not only decorative.

JANE:
Please!
I’m the ornament.
He’s the warranty.

Let’s skip the foreplay, Pantelis.
I’m so jet-lagged I must buy something expensive—
I mean, meaningful—
before I vomit, scream,
or sleep with a Greek man who needs therapy.

I’m at a turning point in my life
and I need to make a purchase with soul—
something handmade that says,
“Look at me. My credit might be flawless,
but I’m not high-end trash.”

I need your art sandals.
And a new identity.

Last time I came, I got my usual T-strap.
But now—
I need something creative.
Curative.
Mental.

—Obviously.

I want sandals that act like a therapist—
without judgment.

Make me a pair of your masterful art sandals
my friends will rave about.

(Her eyes catch his new paintings.)

And your new paintings—oh my God all this nudity—they’re filthy. I love them!
If I stare any longer, I’m ordering a martini,
making bad decisions,
and blaming my mother.

PANTELIS:
I was about to close shop and run—
escape a summer session joyfully strangled
by a tax-thirsty Eurocracy
that gets aroused by paperwork
and climaxes every time it mass-murders small businesses—

(looks at her)

—and you need art sandals.
Now.

I’m burned out.
In writer’s blackout.
And financially violated.

JANE:
You call this violated?
Sweetheart, I’ve been married three times.

PANTELIS:
…You need art sandals on short notice!

JANE:
Short notice?
My current marriage was short notice.
I didn’t know him—
I knew his net worth.
I assumed the rest would sort itself out.

PANTELIS:
I was trying to close shop and rest.
Instead, I found playwright’s material.

—Still.
I need to relax.

JANE:
Relax? I haven’t relaxed since the ’90s—
and that was a clerical error.

Don’t do this to me, Pantelis.
I could melt right here.
Your antique rags can’t handle moisture.

PANTELIS:
All right. Sit.
Take your shoes off.

JANE:
Shoes?

(looks at him)

With that tone,
I assumed foreplay.

PANTELIS:
Shoes only.
foreplay is not in stock.

JANE:
Hunger dreams of banquets.
Reality rarely cares.

PANTELIS (with the back of his palm to his forehead):
Fatigued I stand,
In writer’s blackout ’m truly bound.
And inspiration—gone to ground—
Has fled the land.

JANE:
Uninspired!?
Look at me.

(looks at herself in one of his art mirrors)

I’ve inspired surgeons, photographers, and three husbands.

PANTELIS (taking her in):
…Yeah…
I’d better summon the Sandal Spirit.
Late-night emergencies.
After-hours aesthetic crises.
No appointment necessary.

JANE:
Fine.
As long as he’s board-certified.

PANTELIS (raising his arms; lights flicker, wind howls. A cyclone of leather scraps, glitz, glam, and unresolved childhood issues fills the room—hair blown, sandals flying.):

It’s coming—
it’s coming—
I’m right on the edge of an epiphany!

(From the leather-scrap tornado emerges an entity.)

SANDAL SPIRIT (booming):
CUT. THE. DRAMA.
I’m certified, ancient, and wildly overqualified.

JANE:
WHAT IS THAT?
Oh my God—IS THAT A GREEK GOD?

I thought you were kidding me.
Every time I try alternative healing—BAM—
entities with abs.

Of course he’s sexy.
Short toga. Strong calf. Zero commitment.

Zeus on Grindr.

My therapist warned me about Greece.
Too much history.
Too many mothers-in-law.
Ouzo, moussaka,
and men who look divine
but are emotionally unavailable.

(The Greek god poses, flexing.)

Honestly—
NO boundaries.
Just uncensored mythology, incest,
and erectile symbolism everywhere.

If this is a god,
I need a martini,
a waiver,
and a very good alibi.

PANTELIS:
Shhh! Please!
The spirit is ancient—and very sensitive about soles.
Sandal soles.

(The Sandal Spirit wears impeccable sandals—truly majestic.)

JANE:
Okay, first—
those sandals are beautiful.
Look at that arch!
None of my exes ever supported me like that.

SANDAL SPIRIT:
Lady, cool off.
You mistake animal drive for emotion.

JANE:
Excuse me?
Animal drive is emotion.

My father was distant, my mother was critical,
my husband is a momma’s boy from Astoria
turned real-estate magnate with commitment issues,
and now my bag is missing with him
when I needed it most.

I’m not dramatic—
I’m accurate.

PANTELIS (to the Sandal Spirit):
Help!
She wants color collage, 3D sculptural embellishments—on short notice.
She says if the sandals won’t hold her emotionally,
she might melt down right here.

JANE:
Or later—on Park Avenue—jeopardizing
Botox, lifts, and body work
worth more than my therapy bills.

SANDAL SPIRIT:
Fine. My prescription.

Left sandal: console the inner brat.
Right sandal: unleash the animal.

Together, they haul her out of self-loathing—
with attitude, minimal empathy,
and no refunds.

JANE:
Self-loathing?
Look at me.
This face was expensive.

Sweetheart, I’ve invested too much in myself to hate it.

SANDAL SPIRIT:
That’s exactly what I meant.

PANTELIS:
My art sandals
will let your emotional lava rise,
spill out,
and make a scene—
but chic.

Color explosions. Rock-baroque. Glam.
Strapped in. Turned up.
Drama front and center—
because hiding was never your kink.

JANE:
Wow.
That was so spiritual I almost took my bra off.

Say MAXIMALIST EMBELLISHMENTS one more time
and I’m climaxing at the chakras.

SANDAL SPIRIT:
Maximalism…
a cry for release—
trapped emotion, bitterness, anger—
all dressed up in rococo glam.

A perfectly legitimate way to let go
and sashay toward freedom.

JANE:
Release? Letting go?
Sweetheart, LOOK AT MY FACE—
a rococo masterpiece of let-go lifts.

I’ve let go so much
my daddy filed a missing-person report.

PANTELIS:
Uh… wow.
That’s…
a lot of remodeling for one face.

JANE:
And my hair—
this isn’t blonde, it’s emotional platinum.

It screams,
“I’ve survived men, money, and bleach…
and I’m still standing.”

PANTELIS:
Let’s talk sandals now.
I’m ready to make you a pair
that’ll trigger a minor—
fabulously stylish—earthquake.

SANDAL SPIRIT:
Careful, Pantelis… with all those lifts,
she’s basically a protected monument.
One more earthquake and—

JANE:
—and UNESCO ropes me off.

Honey! That’s why I need his sandals—
structural stability.

PANTELIS:
PLUS ART ON YOUR FEET.

JANE:
And if I’m going to collapse,
I’ll do it fashionably
and call it performance art.

PANTELIS:
That’s the idea—
an iconic glam fall.
Fashion first.
Ambulance optional.

JANE:
And you better be applauding!
And don’t call a doctor—
call a curator!!

SANDAL SPIRIT:
Iconic.
The artist is inspired.
The muse is stabilized.
I’m done and still on time.
I’m out of here.

(The Spirit dematerializes in a glitchy, Star Trek–style transporter shimmer—dramatic, sparkly, and completely unnecessary, like a diva exiting after absolutely nailing the scene.)

JANE:
WOW!! Did he just beam out?
Look—he left a flawless sparkly footprint.

PANTELIS:
Relax. That is divine residue.

JANE:
Sweetheart, if I knew he’d shimmer like this for me,
I’d jump on his transporter stick and yell,
“TAKE ME TOO, CAPTAIN HORNDOG!”

(Suddenly—zap! A sandal epiphany detonates in Pantelis’ brain like a glitter bomb of wisdom.
He throws himself onto the sandals; chaos becomes art.)

PANTELIS (possessed):
Look—I’m not touching anything.
It’s pure energy.
Pure inspiration.

JANE:
I love this spiral strap.
It’s releasing my emotional spiral—
I’ve been spiraling since the ’90s…
and back then it was recreational.

PANTELIS:
It’s happening.
It’s taking shape.

JANE:
IT’S ALIVE! IT’S ALIVE!
More dependable than every man I married—
and I’m a serial bride!

PANTELIS:
Wow… I’m prepping these sandals
for some serious emotional heavy lifting.

(She puts on the finished sandals.)

JANE:
Oh my God. They’re transcendent—true art.

I feel healed—emotionally undressed.
I feel tall—taller than my bestie—What a bitch.

I’ll make sure she sees it on Insta.
I’ll tag her.

PANTELIS:
They’re structural and symbolic.

JANE:
These sandals say everything my marriage can’t.
Support. Elevation. Culture. Boundaries.
And they don’t lie.

PANTELIS:
That is… the highest compliment.

(BANG! BANG! BANG!)

HUSBAND (outside):
Open the door! I found it!
I FOUND THE BAG!

JANE:
Oh.
That’ll be him.
See? He’s only useful under pressure.

(He enters holding the Louis Vuitton.)

HUSBAND:
I went back through security.
I argued with three officials.
I reclaimed your identity.

JANE:
Good.
Hold it.
Pay him.

HUSBAND:
That’s why she brings me places.

JANE:
Obviously.

(She exits. He follows, holding the bag and his dignity at equal risk.)

PANTELIS (to the audience, quietly):
That was based on a true story.