(Bette lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. Her sluggish movements and glazed eyes tell the story of just how drunk she is.)

(From behind the back fence, hear the rustle and crunch of footsteps on dead leaves)

(hear an odd whistle, like a bird call…a pause…then hear it again)

Bette:

(calling out)

All clear…

(the gate opens with a creak)

(Bette takes a long pull of her drink and sits up as the footsteps approach the chaise next to her)

Candace:

Rough day? (eying the now half empty vodka bottle)

Bette:

That’s putting it mildly.

Candace:

Got another glass?

Bette:

Inside…

(Candace turns and saunters into the house)

(Bette tries to keep her eyes averted, but can’t. They drink in every move Candace makes.)

Bette:

(under her breath)

I’m going straight to *****.

(Candace re-emerges with a glass in one hand and a box of Chinese take-out in the other)

Candace:

(holding up the take-out carton)

Is this a prop to make it look like a fully-functioning human being lives in this house, or are you actually gonna eat it?

Bette:

Not hungry…help yourself…

Candace:

(sitting down on the other chaise next to Bette)

You can’t drink your dinner every night, Bette.

Bette:

Watch me…

(Candace chuckles as she pours herself a drink and digs in to the lo mein)

Bette:

So, how was she today?

Candace:

Um…quiet, avoidant, gave me “eat ***** and die” looks every time she saw me…you know, the usual.

Bette:

How did she look?

Candace:

Um…she looked good.

Bette:

What was she wearing?

Candace:

You do realize how pathetic this is, right?

(Bette doesn’t answer and takes another long pull of her drink)

Bette:

She hates me.

Candace:

That’s a bit dramatic.

Bette:

No it isn’t. She hates me. Everyone hates me.

Candace:

Well, leave it to me to buck the system.

(Bette smiles weakly)

Bette:

God’s sense of humor is growing stranger by the day.

Candace:

What’s he done now?

Bette:

Of all the people that could have possibly been left standing after the fallout of the past month, it had to be you–the one person against whom I should be enforcing the ten-foot-pole rule. You sitting here right now and all the other times is like having a neon sign out front reading “Bette Porter has no self-control”. And we’re not even doing anything wrong. But that doesn’t matter now because I’m marked…a giant red A on my chest…A  for adulterer…A for *****…A for alcoholic…A for abhorrent…A for ain’t no way I’m ever going to get Tina back.