MAGGIE:

Us. Us. For Christ’s sake, don’t make me say things I don’t understand. I don’t want to

hear them. I shake all over when I think about them. How long? Two weeks? Three? A

month? And then what? What have I got then? An apartment full of some furniture I

can’t even keep clean for company, a closet full of some old pictures, some curtains I

made out of my wedding dress that don’t even fit the windows . . .What? What do I do?

Sit down with the TV set every night, spill my coffee when I fall asleep on the sofa and

burn holes in the carpet dropping cigarettes? No. I want you to come home. What is this

place, anyway? They make everything so nice. Why? So you forget? I can’t. I can’t. I

want you to come home. I want you to stay out four nights a week bowling, and then

come home so I can yell and not talk to you, you son of a bitch. I want to fight so you’ll

take me to a movie and by the time I get you to take me I’m so upset I can’t enjoy the

picture. I want to get up too early, too goddamn early, and I’ll let you know about it, too,

because I have to make you breakfast, because you never, never once eat it, because

you make me get up too early just to keep you company and talk to you, and it’s cold,

and my back aches, and I got nothing to say to you and we never talk and it’s six-thirty

in the morning, every morning, even Sunday morning and it’s all right . . .it’s all right . .

.it’s all right because I want to be there because you need me to be there because I

want you to be there because I want you to come home.

(Parodying HAROLD.) You're absolutely paranoid about absolutely everything. You

starve yourself all day, living on coffee and cottage cheese so that you can gorge

yourself at one meal. Then you feel guilt and moan and groan about how fat you are

and how ugly you are when the truth is you're no fatter or thinner than you ever are. And

this pathological lateness. It's downright crazy. Standing before a bathroom mirror for

hours and hours before you can walk out on the street. And looking no different after

Christ knows how many applications of Christ knows how many ointments and salves

and creams and masks. Who wouldn't have bad skin after they deliberately take a pair

of tweezers and deliberately mutilate their pores - no wonder you've got holes in your

face after the hack job you've done on yourself year in and year out! Yes, you ve got

scars on your face - but they're not that bad, and if you'd leave yourself alone, you

wouldn't have any more than you've already awarded yourself. And the pills!

(Announcement to the group.)

Harold has been gathering, saving, and storing up barbiturates for the last year like a

goddamn squirrel.

Hundreds of Nembutals, hundreds of Seconals. All in preparation for and anticipation of

the long winter of his death.

(Silence.)

But I tell you right now, Hallie. When the times comes, you'll never have the guts. It's not

always like it happens in plays, not all faggots bump themselves off at the end of the

story.
LARRY. Why am I always the goddamn villain in the piece!

If I'm not thought of as a happy-home wrecker, I'm an impossible son of a bitch to live

with! I'm fed up to the teeth with everybody feeling so goddamn sorry for poor shat-upon

Hank. I've never made any promises and I never intend to. It's my right to lead my sex

life without answering to anybody - Hank included! And if those terms are not

acceptable, then we must not live together. Numerous relations is a part of the way I

am! By the way I am, I don't mean being gay - I mean my sexual appetite. And I don't

think of myself as a wanton. Emory, you are the most promiscuous person I know. I

can't take all that let's-be-faithful-and-never-look-at-another-person routine. It just

doesn't work. If you want to promise that, fine. Then do it and stick to it. But if you have

to promise it - as far as I'm concerned- nothing finishes a relationship faster. You gotta

have it! It can't work any other way. And the ones who swear their undying fidelity are

lying. Most of them, anyway - ninety percent of them. They cheat on each other

constantly and lie through their teeth. I'm sorry, I can't be like that, and it drives Hank up

the wall.

(To HANK.) Don't look at me like that. You've been playing footsie with the penguin all

night. I supposed you'd like the three of us to have a go at it. I want respect - for each

other's freedom. With no need to lie or pretend. In my own way, Hank, I love you, but

you have to understand that even though I do want to go on living with you, sometimes

there may be others. I don't want to flaunt it in your face. If it happens, I know I'll never

mention it. But if you ask me, I'll tell you. I don't want to hurt you, but I won't lie to you if

you want to know anything about me.