"You're Me," From Faye Driscoll, at the Kitchen You're Me, a role-playing-game duet by Faye Driscoll, with Jesse Zaritt and Ms. Driscoll, at the Kitchen. It's a little worrisome to discover that the kids have emptied out the costume trunk. So many props should keep them occupied, and maybe they'll entertain the grownups while they're at it, but the situation is already messy, and it's bound to get messier. Faye Driscoll's duet "You're Me," which began a two-week run at the Kitchen on Thursday, opens with Ms. Driscoll and Jesse Zaritt so covered in random costume parts that pieces slip off at the slightest move. And things do get messier from there, sticky-stuff-and-spray-paint messy. Messy is how Ms. Driscoll likes it. This isn't the first of her works to suggest children at play. "837 Venice Blvd," her breakthrough dance of 2008, took on identity in the form of a clubhouse game of let's pretend. But Ms. Driscoll wasn't in that one or her 2010 follow-up, "There is so much mad in me." She's an appealingly enthusiastic performer. On Thursday she was having so much fun that she could hardly keep a straight face. So is Mr. Zaritt. Neither leaves the stage for the duet's 90-minute duration. As in "837" the role playing is childish in manner but adult in connotation. The first section is a jittery collage of gender stereotypes, poses from classical statuary and romantic scenarios, all twisted into comically awkward balances. Relevant idioms are literalized: She eats out of his hand; he mimes taking her cherry. She coaches him on how to act out a sentimental moment (a proffered rose followed by an embrace), and they do it over until he does it right. Anxiety about doing it right, whatever "right" means, is a core theme in Ms. Driscoll's dances and a principal source of comedy. As much as Ms. Driscoll and Mr. Zaritt perform for each other, they perform for the audience too. They smirk at us. They flash us looks expressing disbelief in what a partner is up to. They look to us for approval. Ms. Driscoll and Mr. Zaritt are endearing enough to make this section amusing, though few would wish it to last longer. Escalating messiness is required to maintain the pitch of excitement, so out comes the powder and paint. It's imperative that they keep us wondering what they'll do next and whether the mischief might spill over the fourth wall. Yet it's characteristic of Ms. Driscoll's choreography that the seeming anarchy is built into a tight structure of recurrence. It's true to form that underneath the silliness - the game of spitting objects into the other person's mouth; Ms. Driscoll's riding Mr. Zaritt's back like a cowboy, gripping his ample curls - lies a serious view of the power of sex. It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt, and somebody does. Craft blooms into artistry in the way that oranges, which have been stuffed into clothing to exaggerate sexual characteristics, sweetly become the means of reconciliation. Snacktime is a balm. The dance should end there, but it doesn't. The kids want to keep playing, and it's both poignant and exasperating that they don't know when to stop. Ms. Driscoll can be proud of the mess she's made, but you have to wonder who's going to clean up. "You're Me" continues through Saturday at the Kitchen, 512 West 19th Street, Chelsea; (212) 255-5793, thekitchen.org.