INT. LIVING ROOM
SKEET is at a music stand with a flute in his hand. He is
wearing a blazer. He is looking at sheet music on the stand.
MYRNA walks in.
OK. We have a situation here that
we need to resolve.
Myrna, I have a thing tonight. I
need to learn this. So the
situation will have to wait.
Really. You want me to actually go
to your concert tonight, listen to
you play music, give you an
applause and ignore this?
Myrna holds up pink panties with her index finger.
You find some panties and you
immediately assume I had some
dalliance. Jesus, I expect more of
you. That is so cliche.
Wait. You are dismissing this
little thing merely because it is
You have obviously found some
panties in our bedroom and you are
making a rather hackneyed inference
that I have had an affair with
another woman. It's rather boring
Boring? Oh OK. Let me be more
original. Oh wow, look at these
cute little pink panties. I wonder
if my boyfriend is a transvestite.
Is that inventive enough for you.
Am I being imaginative?
It's certainly better than accusing
me of an affair. Now can I get
back to my music?
Shall I hypothesize more scenarios?
Let me postulate...speculate...a
little guesswork leads me...right
back to a fucking affair.
Myrna, did you take your
Stop that. This has nothing to do
with my medication.
Excuse me, but assuming the worst
about others is part of anxiety.
You are having a panic attack.
You mean it's not normal for me to
have a panic attack if I catch my
boyfriend in the throes of an
affair? This is my psychiatric
You did not catch me in the throes
of anything. This is what you do,
Myrna. You embellish, exaggerate.
You embroider the facts to justify
your little episodes. Take a Xanax
and give me some space.
Really? Did I embroider your
dresser drawer with these panties?
And what were you going through my
dresser drawer for?
I did the laundry and was putting
away your shirts, asshole.
Now you are getting vicious. This
is what happens. It starts out
with a bout of paranoia and it
deteriorates into nasty
accusations. Shall I call Dr.
Winston? I think this justifies a
I'm really upset.
Myrna is fighting tears.
No. This is not a normal really
upset. This is a really really
upset. I feel...I feel a little
Take a deep breath.
Oxygen won't do anything. This is
not a breathing thing. This is...
this is... I don't know what it is.
But it just feels really bad.
Skeet places his flute on the music stand and goes to Myrna.
He takes the panties from Myrna's hands.
How do you know this is not yours?
Because I don't like pink. OK.
Maybe I like pink. Sometimes I
like pink. I usually just buy
Skeet kisses Myrna on the forehead.
Do I like pink?
I don't know. Do you?
These are probably mine.
It's best to presume that. Any
other assumption would merely...
aggravate your health.
And we don't want to do that.
Skeet walks back to his music stand and notices that Skeet
places the pink panties in his jacket pocket.
And now it's time for me to prepare
for my performance.
Myrna stares at Skeet. Skeet raises the flute to his mouth.
CUT TO BLACK.