End of the Day by Jon Robin Baitz

Helen: I drove down here to ask you a question. Something’s been bothering me.
Confusing me. When you upped and packed and walked out on me, I didn’t say
anything, you know? Slipping into wife-shock, nodding reasonably and letting you
have your eloquent exit, Gray… forgive me, sorry, it’s taken me a few days to get
the balls to come down here and see you, but I am madly pissed off here. This is a
question I should’ve asked when you were packing your bags – for two days I’ve
been gorging myself on granola and anchovy paste, so I’m having trouble
expressing, but the big question—[and it’s a two-parter. Did you ever think I was
smart? Because I’m not. I’m not. I’m…gutter. I’m not clever, you—God, making
me read. Me! Throwing your books at me! And paintings! And ugh…God. Taste.
You and your good taste. You took me down with it, I couldn’t talk, but—here’s
the second part of my question.] Did you ever love me, Graydon? I need to know.
Did you ever love and respect me? Did you learn anything from me? Did I give
you succor and warmth? What were you thinking when you hid in my chest at
night, scared? Were we partners? Did you ever stop in the middle of the goddamn
day, Graydon, and wonder what I was doing or feeling?
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Because I replay this thing in my head here and what I get to is that this marriage
was a sad and—and—and decorous little affair. And it never occurred to me
consciously until this morning when I was eating my pasta… I think you married
me to become an American citizen.