Patrick Left Jean

JEAN (with varying intensity of emotion):

Where did the sea go, that day, the day you swam away from me. Am I the fool for trying to remember? Ha! I remember the fool. It’s been thirty-seven years—thirty-seven years!—since you traipsed in here, into my life. My goddamned life. I’ve been waiting for you my whole goddamned life, Patrick. It’s like a dance, you know, waiting. A dance I know all too damned well. Really, why do I do it? The punishment, the ferocious knives my back so coolly and so often bears, is bearable, if it means you’ll come back. Will you come back to me, Patrick? Come on, calm the waves! I could throw myself in and relinquish my body and turn over and over and over in this ocean of misfortune you willed to me, you bastard. You left me in a wave. Yeah. But a wave and a pathetic little kiss mean nothing. Not today. I’m just the heir of your idiocy and I’m an idiot thinking you’ll ever come back. I just stand here—because I can’t sit, I can’t rest—to wait. This is what you left me. This is all I’ve got to do. Do you think I do it for us? Do you think I want to be free? Hell, give it up, Patrick! Give it to me. I do it for the feeling, the sensation that anticipation gives me. Yeah and I hope you’re there, with her, with that harlot, drinking your Chardonnay, anticipating whatever little thrill those painted lies of hers promised you. Patrick, Patrick. Honey, please. I can’t endure the notion of lying next to you, some night, if the future offers us any more nights, and, and catching the scent of that bitch’s perfume on you. The smell of the sea betrays me.