Margot Crowley howls—a raw cry from her youth.
Her wrinkled fingers clutch Boone Whitaker’s ass, manicured nails digging into flesh.
Don’t stop, Boonie!
A few final thrusts before he collapses atop her.
Easily old enough to be his mother, the bangs of Margot’s bob haircut stick to her forehead with sweat as she peers over his shoulder.
Whew.
I rather needed that.
He rolls off her and reaches for his cigarettes on the nightstand, smiling like he's in on a joke—his antiquated eyes at odds with the clean-shaven naiveté of his face.
Always a pleasure to be of service.
He takes one from the pack.
Don’t you dare light that in here.
Do I ever smoke in here?
You looked like you were about to.
When have I ever?
He rises, cigarette in mouth, lighter in hand.
I’m gonna go to the patio.
Smoke naked.
I like doing that.
It’s broad daylight.
You can’t.
C’mon…
I could give Leonard Street a real thrill.
No response—just a sigh. He persists:
I’m having a beer.
Want one?
No thank you.
Boone tucks the cigarette behind his ear and exits the bedroom of Margot’s glass-and-marble Tribeca flat.
He swaggers naked into the kitchen, swings open the fridge, grabs a beer, cracks it, turns—she’s there, robed, eyeing him with nostalgia.
What?
She turns business-like.
We need to talk.
Okay.
This arrangement is over.
His expression flattens.
May I ask why?
A fleeting smirk—savoring his vulnerability—before she shuts it down, poker face snapping back into place.
It’s no longer fun for me.
I’m sorry to hear that.
He swigs his beer.
When we started up,
we said no fun was a deal-breaker,
so…
And the theater company?
Two full-lengths.
You’ve had a good run.
A good run?
I’m sorry, lover:
Daddy reads the reviews—
and when The New York Times says that the dog was the best actor on stage—
That speaks to my casting.
Be serious, Boonie.
Daddy is a very serious man.
He has friends who play cricket with Harold Pinter.
Right, I forgot.
Her tone softens.
When I discovered you,
I saw nothing but potential…
But I think we might’ve tapped it.
He lets out a short, absurd chuckle.
Are you even coming tonight?
She shakes her head, straightens.
No.
I don’t think that’s appropriate.
You’re the fucking producer.
I’m aware.
But still…
This way you can tell Mona and Henry.
I’d rather not see them.
I don’t know what to say.
Then say nothing, darling.
Margot retreats to the hallway closet. She returns with a Banker’s Box, proud of herself.
I’ve gathered all of your belongings.
Fairly certain I’ve gotten everything.
When did you pack this?
Last night.
I had a good cry over it.
You should’ve seen me.
She forces the box into his arms.
I wanted one last romp.
Hope you didn’t mind.
He sets the bottle down and takes the box. She places a thick envelope on top.
This is your final stipend.
He looks at it, then her.
Is that it?
Are you finished?
Yes.
I’m going to the loo, darling.
To give you some space.
So you can gather yourself.
I’m quite gathered.
I can tell.
He stands naked in her kitchen, clutching his Banker’s Box—while she searches for a boy who was never there.