All language subtitles for Amateur cold play

Everything
was going great.

I'm in a six-year relationship.

We've got a town house,
a cocker spaniel, a cat,

circle of friends,

favorite restaurants
within a five-mile radius,

mutual funds-
not too aggressive...

a guest room for when
we're not speaking,

CD collection, vacation videos,
engagement rings,

our whole future
completely mapped out.

And then I met her.

I didn't have too many
personal rules.

I try to drink
a glass of water every day

and return my mother's
phone calls within 24 hours,

and I didn't get involved
with involved people.

Lacie and I were friends

from doing stand-up comedy
at the same club.

I felt comfortable
around her.

I could talk to her.

A couple times, I actually
called her for advice-

which I never
call anybody for-

about how out
I should be in my act

and how much it might hurt me
if I were.

She always said
the same thing to me:

"Just be real."

That was her bottom line.

One night after a show,

this director approaches us
about a play he's casting,

wants to know
if we'd be in it.

Oh, you two would be
perfect as lovers.

Listen to me.

I needed
to have some fun.

That's why I agreed
to do the show.

I've been waiting
on rude customers

in an overcrowded deli
by day,

and then driving by the house
of the last woman I'd slept with

to see if her car
was in the driveway.

It was long hours with
the food service and the stalking.

I didn't even expect to get
the script, to be honest.

I mean, in my hometown,
Los Angeles,

people are always telling you
they want you for something.

They cannot live without you

and then never
talking to you again.

The play was
about a lesbian artist

who cheats on her girlfriend
with a man-

sort of science fiction.

Anyway, I wanted to do it.

Yeah, I was intrigued by
the sexiness and danger of it.

Having only ever been
with one woman besides Audrey,

it seemed like a good way
for me to explore a little

without cheating,
which I would never do.

No, if I'm going
to be with someone,

I'm going to be with them
forever, no matter what.

That's just how I am,

maybe because I come
from an unbroken home.

I saw people making each other
miserable on a daily basis,

but I never saw
anybody leave.

And Audrey is there for me.

I know she's going to be there
at the end of the day,

at the end of everything.

She's picking out songs
for our ceremony,

interviewing potential
sperm donors,

completing the picture of home and family
we both believe in and agreed to.

I was excited about the challenge
of making the love seem real.

That's one of the things
I love about acting.

You get to create
a life from scratch,

and in this life, you get to experience
everything from love to hate,

free of obligation,
free of consequence.

I thought I could handle
a made-up relationship.

I wasn't too great
at handling real ones,

and not just because my mother
left when I was three,

but because if I'm going
to be in a relationship,

I got to feel good
more than I feel bad,

and that just hadn't
turned out to be the case.

Granted, I'd only been
in two long-term relationships,

one with a man
when I was 18...

my 32-year-old neighbor,
Rick, from across the hall.

Well, moving was a breeze.

The other with a woman named Cass.

I really thought I could make
that one work out.

Audrey wasn't real happy
about me doing the play.

She was worried
about the time commitment,

worried about
our relationship.

She was worried about
the passionate kissing scene

between me and Lacie
on page five.

She made up
a whole rule about it.

No tongues,
no noises.

Which, all I could
think of was,

"Cool title for an indie film."

"Honey," I told her,
"There's nothing to worry about.

"ln six years, I've never
felt anything for anyone else.

I'm not going
to feel anything now."

Well, Lacie seemed
safe to me.

She's very back east,
no bullshit.

Whatever she says
is exactly what she means.

Have you read
this play?

I don't think
I can do this.

I'm not doing this play
unless you do.

I don't know.

I've been busting my ass

trying to make it
in Hollywood for ten years.

So?

So this play's not going
to get me a sitcom,

and I don't know how much longer
I can maintain a sense of humor.

Right off the bat,

rehearsals for the play
are extremely intimate.

For every ten minutes we spend
looking over the script,

we spend several hours getting our psyches
probed by Gabriel, the director.

It is necessary for you
to get to know each other

so you can be convincing
as lovers.

I think this guy's
a real meticulous director.

Dominic?

Unless he's just a nosy queen.

Let go.
Let go.

Regardless, this is
my definition of hell.

All right,
how's your sex life?

How-like,
how's my sex life?

Um, how's-are you talking
about me or the character?

You.

You, you, you.

Oh, um, what-

fine.

Normal.

How's Audrey?

My Audrey?

No, your Aunt Tillie's
Audrey.

Yes, yes,
your Audrey.

How many Audreys
do you know?

No, I don't know

any other Audreys.

I-I-she's fine.

I mean,
I don't know.

Why wouldn't
she be?

I mean, we're working on it.

What-
what do you want?

What do-
what do I want?

Me or the character?

Vous, vous.

Naturellement, vous.

All right, look,

it is necessary for you
to get to know each other

so you can be convincing
as lovers.

Lacie, what's going on with you?

Well, I was bisexual then,
but we were sitting at the bar,

and she shoved her knee
into my crotch.

Lacie has no problem
spilling her guts to Gabriel.

No matter what he asks,

every shocking detail just comes
streaming out of her fearlessly.

Plus, I was doing
cocaine then.

And I liked giving head
to guys, actually,

but eventually I realized
I just liked women more.

So I tried to get him

to tie me up.

Then I was playing
darts with her,

and I said, "If I win,
will you come home with me?"

Anyway, people
see me as tough.

Besides, I had
had a lot to drink,

and it was really late
to be naked on the balcony

with so much tongue,

but not before a cigarette

or her fingers
in just the right place.

Because we met at a bar,
we were just so turned on.

Well, that's how I hear it.

I think I have
more information than I need.

Ah, Dominic.

Prepare a sponge bath.

Who are you?

Questions in therapy are hard.

Well, I don't know;
I don't know.

I'm hungry.

I'm busy.

I'm committed.

I should be committed.

I'm claustrophobic.

Look, I don't-can we just blame
this on my mother and move on?

God, I hate therapy.

I hate therapy
so fucking much.

I just keep throwing out
answers at her,

hoping to be right,

hoping to fill up 50 minutes
without leaping out of my chair

and smothering her
cynical, condescending face

with a needlepoint pillow.

I have anger issues.

Audrey and I have been seeing Katherine
for five years at this point,

sometimes alone,
sometimes together,

to work out the kinks.

We're very different people...

philosophically...

spiritually...

socially.

We want different things.

She wants to take trips,
see the world.

I want to stay home and focus on the dreams
I've had since long before I met her.

We tried to break up once
after 2 1 /2 years.

We'd had another
huge argument,

lying on the bed,
crying and exhausted.

And we both just looked
at each other

as if to say, "Enough."

We'd both
hurt each other enough.

It was time to let go.

It was like these heavy chains
fell off of us.

There was this sense
of independence and peace.

It felt so good.

We decided
to move in together.

With Audrey,
I have security.

I have pizza night
and joint tenancy

and bulk toilet paper
jammed into the cupboards.

And I could sleep at night
knowing we're going to be here for a while.

Can I get a martini for-

I'm sorry;
tell me again.

Laurie, right?

Lauren.

I told you, like, five times.

God.

So you own
the garbage disposal business?

Yes, I do.

I own it.

This girl is pretty
in a sad, drunk kind of a way.

I love people with plights.

I feel like bar people
are my people-

Maybe because
my mother's side of the family

hits the bottle good and hard.

I'm happiest at the bar.

It's dark;
it's easy to dream.

And after a couple of beers,

I'm the person
I've always wanted to be.

Oh, this stinks-

I live right around
the corner.

No.

Do you want
to come to my place?

Okay, yeah-

I love going to bars
and leaving with strange women,

because I don't have to pretend
to be somebody I'm not

or live up to someone's
expectations of me,

and anybody can be
interesting for one night.

So what if they
don't like you.

Fuck 'em!

Robin makes me laugh.

Fuck Hollywood.

I'm morosely introspective.

She rejects self-examination.

My therapist says anger
is really veiled sadness.

Fuck her.

Like she could give

a shit about anyone's opinion
but her own.

I'm sure people do
have judgments about me.

I just don't happen
to care what they are.

See, I want
to know every judgment

anyone ever had about me
so I can rectify my flaws.

Why, when it's so much easier
to be oblivious?

Yeah, but then
how do you grow?

How do you learn
about yourself?

Oh, I'm sick
of learning about myself.

I mean, you know, I want
to evolve and everything.

I do.

I mean, I really do,
but how evolved do you have to be?

100°/°.

100°/°?

Yeah, I mean,
I don't know.

Maybe this is hard
to believe,

but I try to be the best
possible person I can be,

like Gandhi
or like Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ?

Wait, why would you want
to be like Jesus Christ?

Why would you not want
to be like Jesus Christ?

He was one of the greatest men
who ever lived.

Because I know
how it turns out.

She laughs at me.

She blatantly
laughs at me,

but she makes me feel just
frigging terrific about myself.

Relationships.

A personal observation I've made
is that once I've begun

to schedule lovemaking
into the appointment book,

the "relationship" is on its way
to the good-bye-and-good-luck phase.

If I can't be late
to a lunch meeting

because I just couldn't keep
my hands off her,

if it's irking me

that she's touching me while
I'm doing my crossword puzzle,

and if she's reporting to me

how many days it's been
since we've made love,

and I'm arguing back that we might not
have fully made love on Tuesday,

but didn't I kiss you
while I gave you a back rub?

Shit is on the outs.

For my lover Cass and me,

these things occurred
at almost exactly the same time

as I became totally incapable
of hearing her.

I listened to her right up until
the moment she opened her mouth.

Did I tell you
about this ridiculous audition

I had in New York this one time?

I'm getting my hair-

And then the sound of her voice

would cause me
to go completely deaf,

and I'd watch a silent movie

in which the only character
on the screen was my girlfriend,

but all I could hear
were my own thoughts

as I stared at this mouth
opening and closing.

I wonder if I can get to the gym in time

to get in a 20-minute aerobic workout
before I have to go to work.

I'd check back in to see
if anything important was getting said.

I said I want chocolate, not vanilla.

Go downstairs-

I go right back to where I came from.

I'm not proud
of this behavior, but-

and my therapist would
congratulate me on this-

I'm aware of it, and that's
the first step toward healing.

One time during this phase,

Cass and I decided to take
a weekend away in the mountains.

We said to each other we would
fish from a rowboat on the lake.

We smiled as we planned
how we would hike.

We schemed
about what we would cook.

But we each knew
what we were really up to

was attempting to resuscitate our
extremely weakened sexual relationship.

The time of the mountain getaway
had been about six months

since we'd had exciting,
free-spirited sex

and 22 days since
we'd had any sex at all.

I knew this because she'd remind me-

sometimes with words,
sometimes with facial expressions.

Pouting had become
a way of life for her face.

Sometimes I'd come home
and she'd be naked,

waiting for me on a picnic blanket,

having created a park
in the middle of our living room,

there on the very L.A. off-white carpeting
with the big, brown stains.

She'd put it to me blunt.

Aren't you attracted to me?

And I'd stare at her,
haunted, frozen.

I used to be.

Honey, I'm just so tired tonight.

When we first started going out,
it had been very sensual and sexual.

We'd do weird stuff.

One time,
she actually pissed on me,

which most people find revolting,
but which I'm proud of.

It wasn't much,
maybe an 1 /8 of a cup or so.

I don't want to die
without having done

every bizarre thing
available to be done

which doesn't break
any of my personal rules.

Urinary contact doesn't offend me
ethically or spiritually.

It's simply somewhat disgusting,
so it had to be done.

So anyway, we're on
our way to the mountains,

and I'm behind the wheel
of my Toyota 4Runner

with her in the passenger seat
next to me,

and we've put several
coastal cities between ourselves

and nearly a month of strained
celibacy back in North Hollywood,

and yet you can cut the discomfort
on the ride up to the cabin with a knife.

It's my fault, see?

It's not her.

It's me.

I'm never in the mood anymore.

It's me.
It's mine.

It's all on me,
my own failing, my bad.

She is blameless,
and I am wrong.

Let's all dance around
with daisies in our hair.

She's touching me in the car.

She's doggedly running her
fingers along my neck, my thigh.

Her touch is speaking
to me perfectly clearly.

It's the first time
I've heard her in months.

"Don't fail me now.

"Get it together.

Perform."

And I am having my very own
private panicking festival.

I'm going to have to touch her.

I'm going to have to taste her.

I'm going to be alone for two days
in a cabin with my lover,

and I just want to turn the car around

and go back to North Hollywood
and watch a sitcom

and not have to be
an adult or a woman

or most especially a lover.

That is what I want least.

We arrive at the cabin right at dusk.

A bare little porch bulb invites us
into our moon-flecked love nest.

We open the door.

It's cozy.

It's rustic.

It has a bed.

Shit.

She goes to sit on the bed
and I think, "Oh, no.

Oh, God, she's going
to want it now."

See, and we've had
the conversations.

We know that I'm not into it,

and she's already accused me
of being too neurotic

with intimacy issues be able
to have a sexual relationship.

Here's the thing:

what if she's right?

What if I'm really just a frigid bitch?

If there were just
some alcohol around-

I could get it
all happening.

But there's no alcohol.

There's only an emotional relationship

slathered with the strain
of 22 days of failure

and a bed,
a big oak bed.

The big oak bed
is voicing itself to me, saying,

"I am here at this
romantic resort in the woods

"expressly for the purpose
of being made love in.

"Only somebody
utterly screwed up in her head

"would not want to embrace
her lover and tumble onto me

and my back-to-nature patchwork
quilt cover immediately."

Now the sky breaks wide
and gives us a rain worth dying for.

It's the rain
which defines romance

with the thunder
laughing at me.

Cass comes and puts
her arms around me.

She's got me now.

She looks into my eyes

and lightning flashes with
insane sensuality through the window.

At this moment,
I realize

Mother Nature
is on Cass' side.

And it's as if she's grounding me,

sending me to my room
with a firm voice,

"Get in there and don't come out
until you've done right

by your poor,
underappreciated girlfriend."

She's looking into my eyes.

She's got her arms around me.

Oh, my God,
she's going to kiss.

She gives me a warning hug.

The hug foretells of things
she knows will come

whether I like it or not.

I'm going to go
take a shower.

She undresses and steps
into the bathroom,

and I am left to regroup.

As she's showering, my options,
as I see them, are these:

1 : Tell her I don't want to

and spend 48 of the most
miserable hours of my life

in a wooden structure with a woman
who could easily access matches.

Or 2:

Go for it.

Go for it large.

Take the bull by the horns

and take her with a passion
and a courage so forceful

I surprise even myself.

ln the middle will not work,

you see, because
it would be too vulnerable.

It would be Lacie
being intimate with Cass.

No.

Nope, it must be grand,
broad, the work of a Leo.

She's stepping out
of the shower,

and now,
as rules would have it,

it's my turn to shower,
only I don't.

I grab her.

She looks at me
more than a little surprised,

which shakes me up,
but I recover

and lead her to the bed.

It occurs to me that she's never
particularly liked sex

when her hair is wet,

but I breathe deep
and open the towel.

I know this body.

I know all about this body.

I roar, inside.

As I take control, I can feel
myself gaining in confidence.

I'm back three months ago

before she started becoming
dissatisfied and unhappy all the time,

before she started
wanting me to be someone else,

before all the baggage
was all over the goddamn place.

And I make love to her,

and as I do,
I can hear her voice.

I can hear so many voices.

Her familiar moans
are saying, "See?

This isn't so bad, is it?"

And now the bed board pipes in,

drumming its approval with
a rhythmic song, "You've got it.

You've got it.
You've got it."

And I can hear Mother Nature raining
her tears of joy for us and for me.

And the moon's light
is saying thank you to me.

And the stars are applauding,
crickets are celebrating.

They're all talking.

And it's loud, and it's loud,
and I'm there, and I'm there.

And then I hear-

"It's over."

What's this?

This voice is unrecognizable to me.

"It's over," I hear again.

The voice is calm.

It's clear.

I've heard this voice before,
but it's been so long.

It's my own voice.

And it is over.

And I listen,
and I converse with her,

and I let her hear me.

I let her hear my voice,

and it is over.

We drive home in silence,

her in her world,
me in mine.

And that is when I figured out
I'm just not cut out for relationships.

Maybe you just weren't
right together.

Being that I'm either
at work or rehearsals,

communication on the home front
starts to break down.

ln fact, it breaks down
to its most primitive form,

the post-it note.

"Honey, can you please clean your hair
out of the shower drain?"

"Honey, if you're going to be late,
can you at least call?"

"Honey, I think
we need more therapy."

"Honey, tomorrow at work,

can you please steal
more post-it notes?"

One day, I come home
to find one such note

stuck to the answering machine
that says simply, "Listen."

It's a message from Gabriel,
calling to see how I'd feel

about posing for publicity shots-

With Lacie
in a topless embrace.

Oh, God.

Holy shit.

Audrey has already heard this,

and she has been acting a little unstable
for the past 5 years, 1 1 months.

She's out buying
bullets and guns.

What did he say?

What did he say?

Embrace, naked embrace?

Me and Lacie
in a naked embrace?

Oh, no, no, no, no.

Topless.

Only topless.

Totally topless!

Oh, this is bad.

This is very, very bad.

This is really
pushing my luck with Audrey.

This is really going
to get me killed.

This is really, really
starting to turn me on.

I hear the garage door open.

I sit on the couch.

I get back up.

I sit on the couch.

Dishes.
I'll do dishes.

She enters the house
and stands in the doorway.

Maybe she's staying.

Maybe she's leaving.

It all depends
on what I say next.

Hi, honey.

Are you armed
to the teeth?

Did you hear
the message?

Uh, yeah.

Well, that guy's
got a lot of nerve.

I guess.

You're not doing it.

This is a very defining moment for me.

I'm flashing on a scene
from my childhood,

my mother yelling at my father:

Don't clean the pool
in your dress shoes!

My father cleaning the pool
in his dress shoes,

not to spite her,
but because they're his shoes.

The day of the photo shoot,

I shower twice and shave my armpits
in a back-and-forth, crisscross fashion.

I really wish Audrey
wouldn't stand in the doorway

of every room I'm in
with her arms crossed.

I kiss her good-bye,
which she does not unfold her arms for,

but follows me
with her eyes,

her glare burning
hot guilt into my back.

By the time I get
to the photo studio,

I feel like a virgin porn star

about to walk onto the set
for the first time.

And there's
all these people there-

Gabriel,
his little assistant,

the photographer,
the makeup guy.

But for some reason,
I don't see anyone but her.

How you
holding up?

Sipping her cup of coffee
like it's routine,

so calm, so together.

The photographer sets the lights
and drops two pillows on the floor.

Make-out music
is playing on the stereo.

Okay, girls.

Kneel down
on the pillows.

Face each other,

and take off
your shirts.

Wait, wait.

I am entirely too prudish and sober
to be thinking about doing this.

I mean, even at the gym,

I get dressed with my upper torso
shoved halfway into my locker.

We lock eyes briefly as I savor
the fleeting moments of my mystique.

My heart is pounding,
my neck and my belly and my-

there's a lot of pounding.

Lacie starts undoing her blouse.

There's no stopping this thing.

I slowly open my own blouse,

and we let them slip off our
shoulders and down our backs.

Below her face,
I can see a blur of naked flesh.

I refuse to look down,
even for a second.

Then he tells us-

Hold each other

and look longingly
into each others' eyes.

"Longingly"?

I think, "But not too longingly."

I cannot believe that
I am pressing my naked chest

into her naked chest,

skin on skin,
breast on breast,

nipple on nipple.

Lacie, Lacie darling,
lower your arm.

Lacie,
lower your arm.

Robin, tilt your head,;
tilt your head just a little.

Yes, and now
go in for the kiss.

Go in
for the kiss.

Go in for the kiss.

Yes.

Yes, and, oh,
hold together.

Yes, oh, hold it.

Hold it.

Oh, please,
God.

Wonderful,
wonderful.

Oh, I'm very,
very happy.

Sip.

Ah.

Wipe.

Next rehearsal,
I see Lacie in a whole new way.

Like, when you have
a sexy dream about someone,

and then when you run into them,
you still kind of feel it.

"Glad you could
stop by, stranger."

"Oh, come on;
you know I have to work."

"Some people with a lower self-esteem
might think you were avoiding them."

"But not you,
right?"

Gabriel is staging the play;

directing us where to cross,
when to sit, and so forth.

"Are you
sick of me?"

"What?

How could anyone
ever get sick of you?"

"Really?"

"As crazy
as you are?"

"Hey."

"Come here."

Okay, begin the mount.

Get on top of her.

You, you, pull her to you.

Passionately.

Kiss her;
kiss her.

And we get to the part where,
as the script dictates,

I am to lower my body onto hers
and kiss her passionately.

I'm nervous about this.

I'm not usually nervous
about this, but in this moment, I am-

very nervous.

But I want to be good
in the play, so-

Take me home.

I take direction well.

Open and receive.

Kiss her hard.

Open-

Mouths.

Oh, my God,
that's great.

Ah, oh, you bit me,
you bitch.

Oh, oh, Mama.

Oh, Mama.

Oh, I think you got it.

As rehearsals progress,
I find myself doing a lot of things

for the sake of the play-

Holding her closer,
kissing her longer.

ln between scenes,

we're getting more and more
familiar with each other.

She's holding my hand,

touching my shoulders.

I'm playing with her hair,

taking a bite
out of the apple she's eating-

each of us pushing
the envelope,

raising the stakes
a little more each time.

Are we in character?

What are we in?

Life becomes a series
of blurry lines.

It seems almost impossible

to tell what's right
or wrong anymore.

I mean, if I touch her,
it's okay,

but if I feel something,
it isn't,

but if it's the character
that feels something...

Audrey and I go
to Santa Barbara for the weekend

before rehearsals
get too intense.

She gets mad at me
on the first day

because I'm not taking
enough pictures of her.

She gives me the cold shoulder
for the rest of the weekend.

I go out and sit
on the balcony with her,

getting ready
to feel sorry for myself

like I usually do
when this kind of thing happens.

Only I can't.

I'm thinking about Lacie.

Her face.

I keep thinking
about her face,

trying to remember
what she looks like,

what she was wearing
the last time I saw her,

thinking about when
I'll get to see her again.

She'll never be with me.

She might.

She could.

But she won't.

The post-rehearsal good-bye hug
gets more and more imaginative.

I might be pushing it.

That thought
has crossed my mind.

But I'm always careful
not to let things go too far,

not to let myself
feel too much,

to only do things
really good friends might do-

really, really
close friends.

Anyway, I have to do what it takes
in my head to make it okay.

It's foreplay.

I mean, for the play.

We need rules.

We need rules and bylaws,
charters and amendments-

whatever it takes
to put an end to this.

I call Robin on the phone.

I thought we should talk,

because, well, I guess
you probably know why.

Uh-huh.

I mean, I just can't be-
I'm sorry.

I'm trying
to control myself, but-

Well, it's not
just you.

I know,
but I can't.

It's not-

I think we should see each other
only at rehearsals.

What?

I don't want that.

I know.

Neither do I,

but, look, I'm going to have
to take a step back here

for my own good.

I don't want
to do anything

that's going to make me
hate myself later.

I don't see you getting out
of your relationship,

and I don't want to be the cause
of any problems anyway.

You're not the cause
of my problems, okay?

Audrey and I have problems,
and they're playing themselves out.

Look, I did not mean for this to happen,
but I can't help it.

I can't help how I feel.

Neither can I,
but we can help how we act.

We're not animals.

I know, but what if
it's bigger than that?

Whatever it is,

it's not worth breaking up
your relationship for.

I mean, you've got
a model life.

Once this play is over,
these feelings will wear away,

and we can just go back
to things the way they were.

I'm confusing you.

Well, maybe I need you
to confuse me.

You know, I have not been happy
for a long time.

No, no, I can't.

It's just not right.

I'm sorry.

You'll only make it worse,
you know?

What do you mean?

By being
such a good person.

She only makes me
want her more.

I've forgotten who I am,

and Lacie was just
starting to remind me.

I played her some of the songs
I've been writing,

and she starts
talking to me

about how I should
record them professionally.

She has a way of making it seem
like the easiest thing in the world.

Just take out my life savings;

hire musicians, an engineer;
rent a studio.

Maybe it is.

I had this dream
where I'm walking on the beach,

and every time
the tide comes in,

it glitters the shore with
quarters and nickels and dimes.

And I run up and down the sand
just filling my fist with loot

till I feel myself
starting to wake up.

And I grip hold of these coins
like they're real,

like I can steal something
from my dreams,

something that's worth keeping
when I'm awake.

I don't want
to break Audrey's heart.

I don't want to let Lacie go.

I came out to my mom

in the parking lot
of the Golden China Restaurant

on the corner
of Venice and Robertson.

Eating is about
the worst thing you can do

right before you shatter
someone's universe.

Much worse than eating
before swimming.

I meant to tell her
inside the restaurant,

but the moment just kept
getting away from me.

We're standing
in the buffet line,

the glory of the world
laid out before us.

It's broccoli evergreen.

It's amber waves
of chow mein.

We believed that unlimited amounts of food
could bring us together.

We relied on it for that.

Just as I open my mouth to speak,

Mom shoves a warm plate
into my hands.

Stock up on shrimp.

It's worth
the most money.

Okay, maybe now is not the best time.

She's too happy.

She's having that
smorgasbord high she gets,

that blend of joy and panic.

Like, if we'd
go on vacation at some hotel,

she'd keep dragging us down to
the pool because we paid for it,

waking us up at 6:00 a.m.

Why aren't you swimming?

You should be swimming.

Because you had to claim
what was yours

while you had the chance.

You had to take
your life into your hands.

We sit down to eat,
and Mom starts talking constantly.

She has talked nonstop
since I can remember.

I think she always sensed I'd
have bad news for her one day

and didn't want to ever
give me the floor.

Oh, and guess what.

Freddy came by today,
and you know what he said?

He said he knows
you're not

the most beautiful girl
in the world,

but he still
really likes you.

Oh, I think that's sweet.

I don't
understand you.

I don't understand

why you won't give him
at least a chance.

Oh, by the way,

what ever happened
to that guy?

Oh, what's his name?

Oh, you know,

he had
the fancy sports car

and that good job
with the whatchamacallit,

making monster movies.

What was wrong
with him?

And what about
whosemajig?

You know,
he was halfway decent.

Oh, no.

It's like she knows
what I'm about to tell her

and is intentionally summoning

the ghosts of heterosexuality past
to distract me.

God, why is this
taking so long?

I should be out by now.

I should be throwing darts
in some leather bar by now.

Oh, honey, look.

But then she's
reading her fortune.

It says I'm going to have
a happy surprise soon.

Looking so sweet.

Oh, a happy surprise.
I wonder what that could be.

So naive,
dreaming about her future.

I don't want to wipe
that look off her face.

Oh, honey, do you have
something good to tell your mom?

No, no,
I'll call her later.

I'll leave it
on her machine.

I'll send her
a get-well card.

Mom pays the bill, and we start
walking out to our cars.

I can feel the orange chicken
kicking around in my belly,

like, "Come on!
Come on!

Tell her!"

I stop in my tracks.

Everything becomes a blur.

The sunlight off the windshields
is blinding me.

I can barely make out
my car up ahead,

pointing toward the street,
the future,

someplace I want to go.

My knees buckle.

I drop something.

Then Mom's silhouette
rises up in front of me

like a dark gray ghost.

She's picked up my car keys,

and she's dangling them
in front of my face like, "Here.

"Take it.

I dare you to take
your life back."

I grab the keys
and walk Mom to her minivan.

Sweetheart,
I know.

Okay, so I'll call,
and we'll be all set.

And just as she opens the door,
I say, "Mom"-

I've got something
to tell you.

Oh, my God;
oh, my God.

Right away, she doubles over
onto the front seat.

It's all right, Mom.

Mom, what I have
to tell you is-

I'm gay.

Okay, I really wanted
to say, "I'm a lesbian,"

but I thought,
"That is way too many syllables

to be pummeling
at the poor woman," you know?

Les-bi-an.

No.

No, not nice,
not necessary.

You know, I just said "gay."

I'm in, I'm out of there;
no one's badly hurt.

So clawing at her chest,
she says-I'm not making this up.

Oh, my God.

I feel like
when Kennedy was killed.

Kennedy?

I'm like, "Really, Mom?

Bobby or Jack?"

Well, because I needed
to know for my journal.

At this point,
I'm sweating.

I'm totally schvitzing
from every pore.

Coming out to your mom-

nothing betting for getting
the heart rate up.

Oh, it's a real fat burner.

So here's Mom now hanging
onto the frame of the car,

clinging to it like
the last branch of a dying tree.

She says:

Now, wait a minute.

Wait a minute.

Now, how do you know
this is not just a fad?

Mom, it's not a fad, okay?

People have been gay forever.

It's just now they're
coming out of the closet.

Well, fine.

That's fine with me.

But why do they have
to come out of my closet?

And she blames herself

for not breast-feeding,

blames Dad for peeing
with the door open.

She processes.

She grieves.

She takes a brief but thorough tour
of the five stages of loss.

And in the end,

she hugs me.

And she says:

I love you.

I've always loved you.

And I'm like, "What?

"What?

"That's it?

"That's it?

"She loves me?

"She just loves me,
and that's it?

"All those years
of dread and nausea,

"pretending, fantasizing
in my room, and that's it?

"She loves me?

"No torn garments?

No dirt on her head?"

The universe does not cave in.

ln fact,
I feel like the whole world

just opened up
its arms to me.

I say:

You're
the best, Mom.

And I climb
into my four-door Toyota-

the closest I can get to
a sports car-and turn the key.

Sinéad O'Connor
is playing on K-ROQ,

and I crank it
as loud as I can.

She's singing,
"I want your hands on me."

And I just start singing
right along with her,

thinking about all the hands
I want on me,

all the hands I'm going
to damn well have all over me.

Grown up.

Guilt-free.

And I jam west on the freeway
so fast, I feel like I'm flying.

Opening night is intense-

being on stage with her,
creating our own reality.

Audrey didn't come to the show.

She said she was afraid
of what she might see.

The two of us
reacting off each other,

the hot lights,
the energy, the applause,

the crowd,
the Aqua Net-

and coming off stage afterwards
to compare notes-

You got, like,
the biggest laugh.

You got
the biggest laugh.

You got
the biggest laugh.

And I don't know
what happened,

but all of a sudden,

the words just came
bursting out of my mouth:

Want to go out
for a drink?

We go out-

To the local girls' bar-

Sit at a tall table,
drinking beer from the bottle,

our skin tinted red
from the gel disco lights,

our bones vibrating
to this loud, sexy beat.

I hold her hand
under the table,

lean in to listen
to her speak.

I need to hear
every word.

Brush close against her cheek,

smell her perfume, her oil.

Breathe it in.

All the way in.

She touches the back of my neck
with the tips of her fingers,

and this time, I feel it-

All the way down.

I excuse myself
to the bathroom-

Collapse against
a sticky wall.

What am I doing?

What am I doing?

I'm married.

Audrey is waiting for me
at home in our bed,

the bed I made
and now must lie in.

Oh, my God.

This could really happen.

She looked at me

as if she wanted to add me
to her health plan.

Now what do I do?

This is the girl
I want to marry,

and I don't want
to marry anyone.

"Six years" keeps flashing
like a road sign in my head.

Don't blow it.

Think about
what you're doing.

Six years
is a long time.

I promised her
I'd always be there for her,

no one else
would ever matter.

Marriage doesn't work.

Marriage takes
a beautiful relationship

and squeezes
all the love out of it.

Relationships are hard work.

Everyone knows that,
but you stick it out.

You don't just up and run
when something new comes along.

And what if I leave Audrey

and things don't work out
with Lacie?

Then where would I be?

Robin's the all-or-nothing type.

I can't be alone.

She won't accept
anything less than forever,

and I don't see how
I can give her that.

I need someone to ground me,
someone to see me.

I need to be free.

I can't go back
to being just me.

I like having my own place,
being in my own rhythm-

I've been just me before,
and I didn't like it-

looking for a single
with central air,

saving quarters for laundry-

Not having to be home
at a particular time-

Not shaving my legs,
talking to my cat-

Talking to my cat-

Chatting in chat rooms,
dating people who don't get me,

fake smiling,
fake laughing-

Eating at odd hours-

Coming home alone-

Being spontaneous-

Leaving the lights on,
leaving the TV on-

Being left
to my own thoughts-

Trying not to hear
my own thoughts-

Having the bed to myself-

Hogging all the covers,
no one complaining,

waking to silence.

Starting all over again.

I don't want
to start all over again.

No.

This is my life.

This is my life.

I've got the pictures
to prove it-

albums and albums of pictures

of the two of us being
a couple in hundreds of settings,

watching sunrises off volcano tops,
sunsets from the pier.

Evidence of us.

This is not a play.

This is real.

So how come-

So how come
at the end of the night,

when it's time to get in my car
and drive home without her,

I feel like I'm going to die?

Back on Katherine's
reclining leather chair.

Back to the futon,
Coronas in hand.

I close my eyes.

She tries to hypnotize me.

"Five, four, three, two, one.

Deep sleep;
deep sleep."

I'm wide awake,

wide awake to this world
I made.

I wish she could put me under
and send me on my way

in a permanent dream state

where I believe
all things are possible.

What are you
going to do, Robin?

I don't know.

What am I
supposed to do?

You're supposed
to be happy.

The next day, we don't have a show,
and I don't hear from her.

Good.

Saw this coming
a mile away.

Now I can
get on with my life.

Can I get a Diet Coke

with about that much
rum in it?

I decided to just
get back into dating

to meet a nice,
single girl

and put this whole thing
behind me.

I find the likely candidate
down at the end of the bar.

I slide in next to her,

and I think make
a really nice connection.

We chat; we converse.

Everything's going great.

But just as I'm getting ready to
buy her another drink, she says:

What are you
doing here?

You haven't stopped talking
about this girl all night.

Can I get
a check, please?

The next morning, I'm lying
in bed beside Audrey,

staring out the window.

I feel so alone with her,
more alone than when I am alone.

I used to think it was worth
any amount of pain

to keep my promise
to her, but...

Sun's coming up.

I put my hand
on her shoulder.

She knows.

And we'll go through
what we have to go through

to get to the other side-

sell the house,
divide the pictures, take off rings.

Try to get happy.

Remember that house
we kept passing

on the way to our cars
after rehearsal?

That house where you turned
to me that day, and you said-

"I love that house."

This little corner house
with the peeling paint...

Well, all I've wanted
ever since then

was to live
in that house with you

for the rest
of my life.

What about the people
who are living there?

Would you forget
about them?

Well, I can't,
you know, I mean,

because I worry
about these kinds of-

Yeah, I know.

Maybe you worry
too much.

You think?

Forever, huh?

I can see that.

You can?

On a minute-to-minute
basis.

What else
is there?

I don't know
what the fuck that means.

How are you holding up?

Shit, sorry.

What the fuck
is her name?

So?

Are you going
to say your lines?

I just forgot my line.

Cut.

Dominic.

Don't disappear
like that.

Well, did you hear
the message?

Yeah.

The guy's got-

Cut.

Yeah, I don't want
to do anything

that's going
to-f-f-f-fuck.

Cut.

Dominic?

Rub something.

Take two.

Mom, what difference
does it make if he's not-

what's the difference
if he's not-

what difference
does it make?

And action.

What-oh.

Then you just move in.

Then you just get married.

And then you start arguing
over holidays,

and you-and you have-

It's very important that
you get to be-mother's fuck.

And cut.

And cut.

Can I get another
martini for...

Want to come home
with me?

Yeah-oof!

Oop! Oop!

Yeah.

Whoop!

And cut.

That's good.

Slowly-oh, shit.

Oh, shit.
Oh, shit.

All right
or a little more?

Back and forth?

Yeah.

How's that?

Yeah, okay.

And do it again.

Lighting here.

Getting a good laugh?

Mmm.

I don't want
to do anything

that's going to make me
h-hate myself later.

I don't see-
sorry.

I don't-
I fucked up.

I feel faint.

Oh, boy.

Oh, ooh!

Take one.

God, that's great.

Ow!

Phew!

Ow.

Fuck!

31.

Oh!

You bit me,
you bitch.

Get the fuck away.

Cut,; great.