In bed, the next morning.
He: I’m sorry I’m such a jerk.
She: What are you talking about.
He: I slapped you across the face.
She: You didn’t.
He: I took your love and openness and drove all my anger and frustration into it.
She: You did.
He: I hate myself for doing that.
She: You hate …
He: I hate whatever comes up.
She: What comes up?
He: This feeling bubbled up, this…
She: This frustration.
He: Yes. This sense of the cage, the walls up.
She: I am trying to love you.
He: The constraints feel so inflexible.
She: I am trying to make this work.
He: I want to feel in love with you —
She: You said …
He: But not in this moment, not now.
She: (pause) I never want to fuck you with your walls up.
He: I never want to push into you when you’re not open.
She: I don’t want to —
He: To do things, to draw your walls up.
She: I feel afraid.
He: Taken for a ride. Almost.
She: No promises.
He: Vague intentions.
She: It feels like time is slipping past me.
He sits up.
He: I feel unaccepted.
She: I am juggling a lot of balls.
She: I’ve explained this.
He: Your balls are too many. You said, when you juggle …
She: The juggling of balls has a rhythm. Each ball has a rhythm and it changes with each toss and …
He: Our rhythm is out of sink.
She: It’s sync.
He: Exactly. Out of sync.
He (continues: If the balls get out of whack, you let them drop. Pick them up. Nothing is broken.
She: Nothing is broken.
He: Is that true?
She: Every time there is pain, something is broken.
He: I slapped you hard across the face.