A/N: Ok guys just to explain, I wrote this after seeing Alan Bennett's "Talking Heads" where people do monologues etc. This is in the style of Alan Bennett. Hope you like it.

Chocolate Mohair Gloves

a monologue

Chloe is twenty years old. She is small and dark with large eyes and a slight figure. She is standing on a bridge.

I've often wondered what it must be like to have a memory span of three seconds; you know, like dumb goldfish. I won a goldfish at a school fete once; it looked at me with bulgy, glass eyes: dead eyes. I didn't like it.


It didn't last long. Anyway, Having a short memory span would be cool, I think. Everything would be fresh and clear, nobody would know you and it wouldn't leave your presence anywhere. Tony, my boyfriend, pointed out to me that you'd never be quite sure of who you were any of the time. That sounds pretty weird to me.

(Gets a pair of gloves out her pocket)

Chocolate mohair, you know, looks like rabbit fir, clings like a second skin. Mum bought them for me for Uni, three years ago. Seems like a long time ago now. What a lot has happened since then.

It's cold today, but then again it's always cold in Cambridge. Tony says it's something to do with it being low lying or something; I don't know I'm not into geography. All I know is that it is bloody freezing; freezing to death would be easy. The other day I was late for a lecture, where a guest speaker was waffling about Jane Austen, and the tutors wouldn't' let me in; "You're too late, he's already started", they said in that plumy Don accent they all seem to have. Bastards, a plague on both your colleges! I told them to 'eff off' and that I couldn't be bothered to go to some crummy drivel about a writer who wasn't interested in the real world; only with writing about idealistic changes in a stereotypical society. They were not amused, I watched as the blood rose purple in their broken veined faces, snooty gits.

(Spreads hands in defence)

Well, it's true, you wouldn't find sex, alcohol and murder in "Mansfield Park", you wouldn't expect Captain Wentworth to throw Anne down in the turf and make mad passionate love to her or a gang of highwaymen to commit mass murder at the Netherfield ball. There's no passion, no real emotion, no suicide or dying for love (apart for Marianne who is oppressed by Austen as a dizzy romantic).

(Calmer now)

Well, that's just my opinion- take it or leave it. Tony doesn't agree with me but he's a chemistry student with a fondness for alcohol, who only reads in his spare time so what would he know.


Chloe is sitting on a park bench wearing her gloves. She examines them.

I really must get the stains out of these gloves; I wish they were black-then it wouldn't show up. It looks like I've spilt tomato ketchup all over them, but I haven't been to Maccy D's today. I usually go in to get a Big Mac but not today. The sight of that raw meat would make me want to puke. I wouldn't know what was it in- what the makers had done to it. It'd make me mad to see dead flesh.

(Picks at the stains)

Oh, they won't go. (Laughs) I feel like Lady Macbeth, "Out damn spot, out I say." Oh well, I suppose it gives them life. I'm supposed to be going to a lecture at 10:30 on John Webster and the parallel between his work and Shakespeare. I think I'll give it miss actually although I do find Webster's work very interesting. I'm so tired- it was a busy night last night and I wish I sleep for one hundred years or better still, never wake up at all.


So many people die, what difference does one more make, especially such a bitch.


I'm going home for the weekend, back to mum. I don't know what she'll say about the stains, she'd get mad, then I'd get mad, then we'd both scream at one another and then I'd…

Well, she won't find them, I'll hide them away from her, I'll give them to Tony, yes, I'll go and find him now- he'll look after me even if no one else will. What's a mother anyway, she doesn't smell as sweet as a rose- Shakespeare is lying again.


Chloe is sitting in a flat. It is black and burnt.

He's gone. All gone. Everything, he's taken it all. He was here last night and so was I. All three of us here, it was hot, now nobody, nothing. I knew it really, that he wouldn't be here, knew he'd run. Why did he leave me, he loved me, he did, did he? I love him so much, why couldn't he wait for me. It's all black and shelled, I never had anywhere else, and this has been my home for three years. He was my life, he was mine. All mine.


I ring him all the time or I see him. Sometimes he used to try and tell me loved me but he could never quite do it. It was marriage, bound by the laws of love, honour and debt. He'll come back, I know he will. We've had our ups and downs- sure we have, but he's in as deep as me, we need each other now like we've never done before. Even his photos are gone, of his family, of me, like his whole life has been plucked from under him. The chemical smell is still here; the flames couldn't blot that out. He loved to mix potions, like a witch I used to say, out of stuff he'd nick from the labs at college. It'd reek to high heaven sometimes, but I'd put up with it 'cos it was his. They were deadly some of them. Tony said that they could have killed someone stone dead. I never believed him before.


She's still here, I can feel her, lying there still. I can see her now, blond hair against his dark, him and her entwined, him crying "Tavy, Tavy", like they belonged to each other. But he didn't belong to her, he was mine. I remember her face as she realized, tried not to swallow. Blue and cold, beautiful.

It wasn't his fault; she tempted him all the way. He'd obviously had too much to drink, he phoned me to tell me to come over, only it slipped out wrong. He did want me, he did. He loved me, he loves me still.


It seems she's still here- she would not burn.


Chloe is back on the original bridge but is now standing on the edge as if to jump off.

I haven't done my essay yet for tomorrow but I don't suppose I ever will now. My tutor Jon Hancox gets annoyed with me if I don't hand work in. Silly old fossil, he'll have to wait a bit longer this time. They are coming for me, it'll be soon now, but I must say why.

We lived in a flat, the two of us, alone with our Shakespeare and atoms. Flat were our lives to others (apart from the sex and the occasional soapbox comedy sketch, like warms and slap without the sick). This was how people perceived us. The flat was situated nowhere special, nothingness was all around us. At least, it was nothing to us, but is you looked closer, you could see skeletal shapes of other worlds, and other scrap heaps of a commodity called life. Ours wasn't of rubbish, but no on else could see that. Time passed this block of grey, not daring to look through the windows in case it ran away with himself. Everything was good.

Then she came, and with her, Fate made his first visit to OUR PLACE. He looked on bored with perfection, played games, dealt a blow to the place; he let the terrible consequence of his being on these consummate beings. He made Tony hate me. He showed no mercy to any, we were all destroyed.

(Pause. Chloe looks over the bridge)

I suppose I'm just old fashioned; believing love can conquer all. They are coming for me now, the police and their dogs. Tony is gone; I don't know whether escaped or caught. Goodnight sweet Prince and may scores of devil's drag you down with me.

I really should have washed my gloves.


A/N: So, did you get it? Hmmmm. Well, basically this girl is a bit mad and has killed her ex-boyfriends new girlfriend and burned down his flat. Mental bitch! Anway, cheers,