(Setting: an apartment kitchen, modern times. Minimal lighting: one light over figure, maybe weak light coming in from a window. Stage should be black, with various recognizable kitchen shapes: a stove, a microwave and toaster on a counter, a silently dripping faucet, a fridge with those big plastic letter magnets pinning up yellow post-its that have long lost their sticky.
A girl in a long-sleeved nightshirt and patternless PJ pants sits at a plastic-topped dining table. You know, one of those odd fifties-ish designs with slightly curled double metal legs and topped with a warm, mortherly yellow interrupted by cheap square sequins and light blue, coral, and black boomerang shapes, formulated to look careless. The girl sits at one end, across form her is a waffle-iron, little red light glowing. Between the two is a medium- sized metal bowl, dripping batter. A big spoon's handle sticks out the top, messy with batter as well. She sits with her feet on the chair, knees drawn up to her chin, ankles crossed. Her hands grip the sides of her armless chair that is the same double-curled-metal-legged type as the table, arms stiff.
The girl, Wiley, sounds exasperated. Angry. But there's a lot of sorrow in it. We seem to have interrupted her in the middle of her tirade.)

Wiley: Do you even know what I want? (Puts her feet on the floor, pushes the chair back violently, balls her fists, and screams at the waffle iron) Jesus! It's not like I want anything from her! Yeah, so I asked for one thing. One small, goddamn thing! How the fuck was I to know she'd act like that? He told me she probably wouldn't, and NOW look! Fuck! She's treating me just like she treats him! (Beat) Oh my God, will you just shut up!!

(She picks up the chair and slams it on the floor, hot tears starting to spread down her cheeks. It's only noticeable because we now realize, as a few lights come slightly up, that her hair is stringy and her face unclean.)

Wiley: (Trembling in body and voice) I really wrecked it again, didn't I? And this is all your fault. It is! Don't deny it, goddamn it all! You're always trying to tell me what to do! Well I'm fucking sick of it, do you hear me?! SICK - OF - IT! You ugly bastard, I hate your guts!! I hate you for everything! I hate you for all the stupid shit you make happen in my life! No, fuck that, I hate you for making me even have a life! Why did you even bother?! WHY?!?

(Falling on her knees, she seems about to break down into tears, cupping her face in her hands in a traditional mourning/praying position. Seconds after her first real sob, she pulls her fingers through her hair, trembling and hissing with rage.)

Wiley: Fine then, just fucking ignore me, you JERKOFF! You're always doing this, leaving me alone when I need solitude the least! And then you just butt in again to make my life even more sucky! I hope you choke on your own vomit!! (Quiets slightly) Yeah... right, Wiley. I'm sure he drinks as much as you do. Staggering home late at night and puking on your only decent fucking pair of fucking shoes. Fuck... (Presses one palm to half of her face, grimacing) Serves you right...

(She sits there for an uncomfortable amount of time, seeming to think. Every now and then she mutters something or rubs her face. At one time, she tries to clasp her hands in a position of prayer, but her mouth opens and no words come out. Finally, she stands up again, slowly, stiffly. She turns and picks up the chair, using her foot in an attempt to scuff out marks left by her previously hurling the chair at the floor. She sets it right, and its once again in front of the table, knees under chin, ankles crossed, arms stiff by her sides as her hands grasp the sides of the chair, tight, tight. With a click- the only sound heard in the last few minutes since Wiley was on the floor- the waffle light goes off. Beat, stage lights off, curtains close.)