JANE: I guess that’s—

TYE [with homely lyricism]: You reckon that’s right you’re right. I never asked many questions and neither did you, we just accepted each other until this particular Sunday when Chicken Little was right and the sky fell in. Well, the police didn’t come. It’s getting dim in the room, it’s getting almost dark—and we don’t talk. I smoke my joint. I offer it to her. She takes a hit and coughs. I look at her steady in the room getting dark and I see her clear. She turns her face away and I walk around that way and look at her from that side and she turns her face to the other and she’s crying without a sound and a black man’s playing piano at the Four Deuces round the corner, an oldie, right the atmosphere of this bit—something like—

[Fade in piano playing “Seems Like Old Times.” Tye begins to sing softly with the piano.]

JANE: Don’t. [He stops the soft singing but continues to stare at her.] DON’T! [Pause.]

TYE: Jane, you’re thinner, ain’t you?

JANE: Why?

TYE: How much thinner are you?

JANE: I—don’t know or—

TYE: Sometimes you walk a block and can’t go any further. [Pause.]

JANE: I guess I’m a yellow cab girl. With limousine—aspirations which you’ve blasted.

TYE: Cut the smart talk, Babe. Let’s—level about it. [Pause. She extends her hand.] Another hit? [Jane nods and takes a hit off his cigarette.] Huh?

JANE: It doesn’t seem likely now that my checking account or savings account are likely to be noticeably increased by the Brazilian. How about yours? Say in case of heavy, prolonged hospital expenses without Blue Cross or whatever, both of us being—free-lancers—drifters. —Could you afford heavy prolonged hospital expenses since I can’t?

TYE: Tell me, Jane. Whose hospital expenses?