HAROLD and LEA, middle aged. Can be seen only by a weak flashlight. Clothes torn, faces dirty.
HAROLD: Do you think we’re the last ones left?
LEA: Hard to say. (Beat) Maybe. (Beat) Flashlight’s barely holding out.
HAROLD: We did a pretty good job.
HAROLD: We used our brains. We’re survivors. No one can say otherwise.
LEA: (Checking backpack) Yes. (Beat) Tuna. One tin. Nothing to open it with. No water.
HAROLD: You surprised me.
HAROLD: You’re tougher than I realized. I mean, you killed a man with a fork.
LEA: Had no choice. He would’ve killed us. Taken our food.
HAROLD: I’m afraid we’ve run out of options.
Slight pause. LEA sighs, then suddenly takes hold of HAROLD, hands around his throat. He struggles but her grip is strong.
LEA: (Deliberately) I honor you. I cherish you. I love you. You’ve been a good husband.
But I love myself, just ever…so slightly…more.
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