He stares blankly, exhausted. He's been crying.


Of screen we hear a girl.

"Do you want a drink of water?"

"No." He starts to choke up.

"I'll get you a drink of water."

"You don't have... ok."

She goes to fetch him water. In the background we can hear her walk to the bathroom, turn on a tap, fill a glass with water, turn off the tap, walk back down the hallway. He tries to recompose himself.

"Here," she said as she gives him the water.

He drinks it all down, and then gives her the glass. She takes it away, and once again walks away.

He rubs his face.

"Thank you."

"I just don't know...why?"

"I told you already. I can't do this anymore."

"I know you said that."

"I can't. I'm done. I'm going to Paris."

"You're going to Paris?"


"Paris? France?"

"Yes. Paris, France."

"You don't speak French."

"You can barely speak English, but you do OK here."


"It's true."

"Why can't you just go to Montréal?"

"I don't like Montréal. Montréal is an awful place and it's cold in the winter."

"How do you know you'll like Paris?"

"I don't know if I'll like Paris."

"What the fuck Nicole?"

"Why are you doing this to me?"

"To you?"

"Yes, to me."

"I'm doing this so I don't end up hacking off your fucking head and burying you under a rose bush."


"No, I'm serious. This is all I think about. I'm sick of the sight of you. Everything you do I find unbelievable loathsome and utterly repulsive. I'm horrified that I ever let you inside me."


"How are you feeling, now? Still going to throw up?"

"A little."

"But, you're done crying, right?"

"Yeah, Nicole, I'm done crying."