You look ridiculous in that make-up. Like the caricature of a whore. A little touch of mommy in the night. Fake Ophelia drowned in the bathtub. I wish you could see yourself. You’d really laugh. You’re your mother’s masterpiece. Christ. There are too many fucking flowers in this place. I can’t breathe. You know on the top of the closet? The cardboard box, I found all your, I found all your little goodies. Pens, key chains, foreign money, French ticklers, the whole shot. Even a clergyman’s collar. I didn’t know you collected all those little knick-knacks left behind. Even if a husband lives two hundred fucking years, he’s never going to be able to discover his wife’s real nature. I mean, I, I might be able to comprehend the universe, but I’ll never discover the truth about you. Never. I mean, who the hell were you? Remember that day, the first day I was there? I knew that I couldn’t get into your pants unless I said, what did I say? Oh, yeah. “May I have my bill, please? I have to leave.” Remember? Last night, I ripped off the lights on your mother.
