Can a story of love be more real than love itself, than the real thing? Henry and Annie are lovers and storytellers, lovers of stories. Henry loves Annie; Henry loves pop music; Henry loves words and writing well. He loves loving well. Annie loves Henry; Annie loves her cause, a young political prisoner named Brodie; Annie loves telling a love story with Billy, her younger co-star. Which of these loves is real? On stage or in love, how do we know when we've found the Real Thing?