And the Oscar goes to . . .

Don’t break a leg getting out of here.

What’s that supposed to mean?

I didn’t know we considered meanings, Frankie. I thought you and I went strictly by instinct.

You got a bug again.

No bug, just a middle-aged woman’s rosary, a bead for each year, six with your name on them.

You know, I think you go a little soft in the gourd early in the morning.

Look at me when you talk to me! I’m not some sort of garbage pail you can slam a lid on and walk away.

What the hell is all this?

Let me tell you about Hell, about being a silly woman who needs to feel she belongs to someone, even someone as empty as you are, Frankie. Cause you’re not real, you’re some sort of dream, some sort of fog that comes drifting in here at night and out again in the morning.

You get as good as you give, Sophie. Nobody breaks your arm.

Oh, no, nobody breaks my arm. That’s the pathetic thing about me. But you, Frankie, oh, you’re something else again, you’re really something else. You go after what you want--and in some men it’s admirable--in you, it’s unclean!

I don’t know what the hell you’re gibbering about.

No, I know you don’t. Oh, go on. Go on and get out of here. That’s what you want to do anyway, you want get out of here without having to look at me. So, go on, go on!

I’m going, old lady. But let’s make this the last stand. Let’s make this the one that wraps it up. Fade out.

Bye, Frankie. Close the door behind you. Let me get some sleep.