Playella | Domestic by Lydia Thomson

CARLY is sat in front of the washing machine watching, waiting for it to finish.  ANTHONY enters, drying his hair with a towel.  He stops, looks at her,  frowns.  She notices him.

CARLY: I think I put something red in with your white shirts.

ANTHONY: Shit.

CARLY: Sorry.  It should be okay.  Those socks have been washed a hundred times before now.

He watches the washing machine with her.  It stops.

Here goes.

She pulls the shirts out, they are pink.

Fuck I’m sorry.

ANTHONY: It’s fine baby.  You’re a total fucking idiot, but it’s fine.

CARLY: I just didn’t think I didn’t think to check inside your trousers in your sleeves they must have crept in by themselves.

ANTHONY: It’s totally fine, calm down.  I mean, crept in?  Socks don’t have any kind of, you know, autonomy, but

CARLY: What’s autonomy?

He hits her with the towel.

That hurt, why did you do that?

ANTHONY: So that you’d remember.  Autonomy is control of your own actions, your own will.  Right?  What’s autonomy?

He hits her again.  She recoils.

What’s autonomy?

He prepares the towel again.

CARLY: Control of your own will.  Your own actions.

ANTHONY: Well done, baby.

He kisses her forehead.

Might as well throw those shirts in the bin.  I’ll buy new ones tomorrow.

CARLY: I can pick some up for you?  I’ll take your measurements from these ones so that they’re perfect.

ANTHONY: Thank you, sweetheart.  Love you lots, okay?

He kisses her on the mouth.  She holds him, desperately. He lets her go, slaps her playfully with the towel and leaves.

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One comment

  1. Pingback: Playella Project | Week Four | The Dark Side | Descent

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