DOREEN FISHER, 50, glitters in
diamond earrings and an
unseasonable white mink fur. She
sits alone at the bar and nurses a
drink, studies herself in the mirror
on the wall.

ERNIE fills her glass. She stops
him.

DOREEN
Thank you, Ernie.

He nods, tries not to notice her
disappointment.

ERNIE
Might I just say, Mrs. Fisher, that
you look especially lovely this
evening.

DOREEN
So lovely, in fact, that Mr. Fisher is
standing me up ... once again.

She raises her glass and takes a
sip.

DOREEN
I often wonder what the little
tramp's name is.

Jack storms in and stomps up to
the bar. He pounds his fist on the
marbled counter to get the
bartender's attention.
...
She taps a long cigarette from her
case and places it between his
lips. He nods his thanks. She
lights his cigarette with a fancy
lighter. He studies the encrusted
diamonds on the lighter, the lines
around her red lips, the crinkled
skin around her eyes.
JACK
What are you? A movie star or
something?

DOREEN
Do I look like one?

JACK
No.

He downs his second drink.

JACK
You look better'n one -- if you
don't mind me saying so.
...

JACK
What, you got a room
here, too? Jesus, lady, how
rich are you?

DOREEN
Filthy.

...