STELLA
And so, well, I have a secret about you. Kept it from
you. (beat) I’ve have a box, and it’s a coffin I am
making for you.
 

THOBY
Thank you?
 

STELLA
No, not a coffin for your body, or an urn for your
ashes. But a box I’ve made, filled with letters,
stamps, old photos, torn things, drawings. Just a few
things we’ve shared--not everything, and nothing too
serious or too meaningful. But some kind of capture of
you, I think. It’s both alive and dead.
 

THOBY
May I see it?
 

STELLA
No, never. I don’t want to jinx it. I know you’ll die,
far, far too soon for me most likely, even if
that’s seventy years away, it’ll be too soon.
 

THOBY
Good, that’s my plan, too.
 

STELLA
But I also want to have with me just a few things of
you being already dead. Maybe just so I know I can cope
with it. (beat) I do have it.
 

THOBY
I totally believe you do.
 

STELLA
And that’s how I compartmentalize, I know. It’s not for
proportion, or to put things into perspective--it’s
probably the opposite of that. Just holding off, a
little, I suppose.
 

THOBY
I hope, then, it’s a small box.
 

STELLA
It’s the smallest box ever.
 

THOBY
Good. Then keep your word for me. I never want to see
it.

STELLA
Scared of your own mortality?
 

THOBY
Gosh, no. I am pretty easy with the idea of
disappearing, too. Occasionally, yes, there’s a twinge
of egoism, of wanting to have accomplished this or
that, some laurel, some memorial of all about me. But
not really. There’s a lot to be said about just
disappearing. We were once exquisite, and now we are
nothing.
 

STELLA
I can live with that. I do live with that.
 

THOBY
Oh, but except when it hurts. Then it’s not so funny.
 

STELLA
No, no, no, dear Thoby. Especially when it hurts.
That’s when it’s fucking hilarious.

Beat. There’s a scratching at the door, maybe?
THOBY goes to the door. Opens it slightly, looks
out, and steps back in the room.
 

THOBY
Nothing there.