Peter Maple

CAITLIN:

(Looking out. Ahead)

So I told him: come pick up your gear – come pick up your shit. I don’t care…

(Looks to person listening for their response, then back to her view of the skyline)

And I packed it all – all his worthless junk – all his worthless shit.

After all the time we’d spent together, all his crap fit into two bags – two bags.

-Neatly.

And then they sat there – for days – those god dam bags just sat in the hall for days, waiting…

Which only infuriated me more.

I wanted it over with, you know. I wanted it finished.

…He even managed draw out that process as well…

Then he turns up, five days later, five days late. I hand him his bags. No words. None from me. None from him.

He takes his bags, he stands there, he opens his mouth to speak – and there I am, on top of him. My mouth on top of his. My body on top of his.

It’s the… familiarity.
He’s familiar.
His smell – his scent.

Breathing him in – it’s like taking a big hit of ‘comfort’.

‘Comfort’ just filling your lungs – feeding your veins…

And there I go. I fuck him.
I make love to him…?

I hate him. I fuck him. I fuck him. I hate him.

And it’s the same old familiar ride.
Nothing different. Nothing special.
Nothing changes…

(Beat)

He leaves. I’m left.

(Laughs)

And his bags are left.

His bags are left – they sit there in the hall.
They’re still sitting there in the fucking hall.
He hasn’t come back. I haven’t touched them.
They just wait, there…

(Beat)

I’m glad he’s gone. I hate him.
I do.
‘Hated him for a long time.

(Beat)

Problem is: now I think I hate myself a little bit too…

And I’ll tell you, it’s a pretty pointless fucking emotion – hate, hatred, hating yourself…
There’s not much you can do with that.

(Taking in the view – really absorbing what’s ahead)

God… It’s beautiful out here, isn’t it…?
We really do live with such a beauty…

 

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