A monologue from the play by Penelope Skinner
LINDA (fifties)
You know the funny thing?
When I saw her?
When I saw that girl standing here
in this kitchen
my kitchen I spent months planning and designing and decorating. The kitchen I spent months doing overtime to pay for. The kitchen I’ve cooked your dinner in for more than a decade.
And make your coffee. And poured your cereal. And cleaned and cleaned and
when I saw that girl standing in my kitchen
wearing your T-shirt
I thought
I knew this would happen.
I sat here waiting for you to come downstairs
And there was this voice in my head
I couldn’t stop it
I think it was my father’s voice actually strangely enough I heard my father’s voice in my head telling me: you do know, Linda, don’t you — that this is your own fault.
When your husband f***s another woman, you’ve only got yourself to blame. He doesn’t want you anymore. And why would he? You’re old now, Linda. Your body isn’t what it used to be.
And you came in here with your hair wet from the shower
your face all flushed and funny looking and I thought
my God look at him
What on earth did I ever love about him?
