(An afternoon. They speak on the phone because he doesn’t like texting. He’s the one who calls. When she comes over, they sit on the sofa, talk, have a couple of “strip-me-naked” Bombay-tonics. She goes to the bathroom. Then they move to the bedroom. She massages him and they have sex. They relax and soon she leaves.)
—Do you want to come over?
—Do you want me to come over?
—Sure. If you want to.
—I want to. If you want me to.
—Yes, I do. I already said so.
(Saying “I already said so” is always a mistake; he always forgets not to say that.)
—No, you didn’t.
—I really did. But never mind, I’ll tell you again: I want you to come over.
—Why do you always have to be so difficult. I wanted to come over but now I’m not so sure.
—Yeah, I know what you mean. And now I’m not so sure, either.
(Silence for a moment.)
—Okay, I’ll come over.
(They hang up. She comes over. There was never a time when they spoke and she didn’t come over.)