Matilda, a thirty-something year old art critic.
Paul, a middle age manager at an upscale hotel in Midtown Manhattan.
Sunday morning:
Matilda is on the way to church. A big hat covers her face.
The phone rings: she picks up the receiver.
We see Paul sitting in the chair with the Sunday Times on his lap. The
page is opened on the art section.
Paul
Hello! Hope I didn't wake you up? Did I?
Matilda
No, but I wish you did. Good morning, Paul!
Paul
Listen, Matilda. I have some questions about your article.
Matilda
Can we talk later? I'm late for mass!
Paul
So, will I see you tonight?
Matilda
Not sure. I've got this blister.
Paul
Where?
Matilda
On my lip.
Paul
Really?
Matilda
Looks bad.
Paul
How often do you get those?
Matilda
Sometimes . . .
Paul
How strange!
Matilda
I remember my first when I was seven.
Paul
Hmm.
Matilda
It sits robustly on my upper lip. Huge!
Paul
Does it hurt?
Matilda
Every time I drink or smile.
Paul
And you smile a lot.
Matilda
Do I?
Paul
Especially when you drink.
Matilda
Hmm.
Paul
I get blisters too. Usually on my hands.
Matilda
Really?
Paul
Not often.
Matilda
I bet! Do you any now?
Paul
I don't know. Let me look. (He reaches for his spectacles.) I don't
see any. How did you get yours?
Matilda
I was cooling off in front of the air conditioner, for an hour and a
half. Remember?
It was 108 degrees yesterday.
Paul
Did the air conditioner rub your lips?
Matilda
Not really.
Paul
How did you get this blister on your upper lip?
Matilda
Don't know.
Paul
Is it a cold sore?
Matilda
Yes, it is! Did I say a blister?
Paul
You bet!
Matilda
My God!
Paul
Funny!
Matilda
How strange.
Paul
Not as strange as your article.
Matilda
Really?
Paul
Were you cracking apéritifs?
Matilda
Certainly not!
Paul
Shall we get some tonight?
Matilda
If you won't make me laugh.
Paul
Can't promise, we'll discuss your article.
Matilda
What is so funny about my article?
Paul
Everything. Can we talk later? You are late for mass.
Matilda
Forget it! I'm coming over.
Matilda slips out of her pair of Gucci's, tightens up her sneakers;
leaves her straw hat on the chair; puts on the tattered Yankee hat and
runs out, dashing furiously to the front doors. We see Paul, with a
gleeful smile, lighting up a thin brown cigarette. The coffeemaker is
steaming. He adds a second cup on the coffee table. Then he searchers
throughout the dusty box for his old records, finds "Who Could Compare
With My Sweetest Matilda" and places it inside of the cherished gramophone,
an old chump. The music is on. Paul sinks into his chair with the Sunday
Times; it's opened on the art section. The doorbell rings.
A DISHEVELED
MATILDA POPS HER HEAD IN.
CURTAIN