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A monologue from the play by Clare Lizzimore
Rachel is in a session with her therapist Stephen because her husband has become concerned about her depression. Stephen has suggested that she “do something nice for yourself.” Maybe give herself a face masque.
Oh so you mean, put some bubbles in the bath? Dress in a white robe, little white peep toe slippers, and a face masque, and think of smiley things? You want to know something they didn’t teach you at school?
They didn’t teach you that it’s women in the movies that do that, and that real women step in sh*t on the way home, and spend the journey doing scape-y sideways walking to try and ditch the stench.
But. Inevitably. It gets stuck in the grooves and you’re actually, with all that shuffling, you’re grinding it into the soles. And then, you know what happens then?
Your bag splits as you’re crossing the threshhold, so your shopping’s all rolling about in the dirt as your kicking it in the house, with those shoes, the ones with the sh*t. And then you get in
(Beat) and there’s a power cut. So you eat your dinner in the dark, after cleaning you shoes in the sink, and they’re there on the counter sodden and f***ed up with the memory of sh*t and you think, at the least the shoe has its double.
(Beat) So now they’re sat there, stinking, but smug, smug cause there’s two. And you’re just one. Until your husband comes home. And even then laying there in the dark, the shoes have it better. ‘Cause at least they’re a match.