Sighing, looking sadder than ever, Monica goes into the bedroom and he hears her strip off the uniform, take it to the machine and load the powder; the quiet rumble begins. Pulling on his gown Hook goes back in the living room, turns up the cricket and reaches for his drink. Through the cardboard wall to his right he sees it’s dusk. Monica comes through dressed in her silk gown, holding her champagne, deflated. He catches her eye: she blushes.
“You OK?”
“Fine.”
Monica sits on the sofa sipping her drink. She hardly drinks during the day as it makes her tearful. Probably shouldn’t drink at all as it doesn’t agree with her. But then what would they have in common?
Hook nods at her empty glass. “Another?”
“No thanks. I have a headache.”
A funny thing, with Monica: she often gets headaches after sex. Doesn’t want to talk about feelings or futures, just wants quiet and, ideally, sleep. Except they haven’t had sex, not even close. Suddenly Hook knows they never will again. Monica watches the cricket, smoking her cigarette.
“Why did you give up, anyway?” asks Hook dreamily.
Monica looks down absently at the cigarette in her hand. “Smoking? I just didn’t think it suited me.”
“It does,” says Hook. “It does suit you Monica.”
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