Lights off, Lights on.

Marilyn Monroe, The Misfits, Inge Morath

Though I'm late for a train at Pennsylvania Station I run to a news stand. Girl behind the counter looks at my Vanity Fair, confused. "Ma'am," she says, pointing at the cover, "who's that, ma'am?" "Marilyn Monroe," I say. "Ma'am," says she, "is she dead, ma'am?" "Yes," says I, "she's dead." "How," she asks, "an accident?" "Yes," I answer, "a suicide."

Her eyes widen. She looks at the beautiful woman on the cover of the magazine, looks at me, late for my train. "But why, Ma'am? Why she kill herself, ma'am?" I wanted to take her for a coffee, talk to her about the price of privilege and unassailable loneliness, but I was late for my train, so all I could say was, "Read the article!"

And the curtain rises.