KATE: (calling) So, how long have you had this place?
KATE*: What?!
KATE: I said, how-how long have you been here?
KATE*: About five or sixth months.
KATE: Oh. Not that long then?
The sound of a toilet flushing and KATE* enters, buttoning up her jeans as she walks towards the bed.
KATE*: It feels like forever. I think it’s a horrible flat.
KATE: Really? Maybe if you unpacked, put some pictures up or something…
KATE*: I can’t decorate a place I don’t like. You know sometimes a room just clenches in on you? Makes you hate yourself.
A pause. KATE plucks at the duvet while KATE* settles on the floor and lights a cigarette.
KATE: I, I have these flatmates and they make me feel like… like that. Just being around them. It’s like when you spend too much time with a person and all this anger builds up until you could strangle them… only I want to strangle myself.
(pause)
You love them, and you think it’s important that you stay friends because you love them and they love you but… They pile all this invisible stuff on you; every strange look, every hug where you held on too long and made things uncomfortable, every mistake you make. They don’t laugh at my jokes or answer my questions and I can look at myself and see why but I can’t change either, I’ve tried. I can’t be smoother or sharper.
(pause)
KATE*: You should move out.
KATE: It’s not that simple.
KATE*: It could be. You could move in with me.
KATE: You just said it was horrible here.
KATE*: So we’ll find another place, a better one.
KATE: I don’t know your last name.
KATE: So?
KATE: I don’t even know if I think you’re real.
KATE* smiles broadly.
