Fleabag Play Script 〈TRUSTED ⚡〉

That’s the thing about death, isn’t it? It’s the admin. The voicemail you have to delete. The jumper you can’t throw away because it still smells of their neck. The freezer full of frozen rodents you’re too much of a coward to bury.

So. The guinea pig died. Not a metaphor. An actual guinea pig. My friend’s. Well, she’s not my friend now, obviously. I was housesitting. I was supposed to water the fern and not kill the rodent. I did one of those things. Guess which.

My mother used to say I had “difficult hands.” Not ugly. Difficult . Like they were always reaching for something they shouldn’t. A hot stove. A married man. The last biscuit. fleabag play script

Welcome to the mess. It’s got central heating and a broken lock. Please, take a seat. There’s wine in the glass if you want it. Or don’t. I won’t be offended. I’ll just assume you’re dead.

I miss my best friend. I know you’re supposed to say that quietly, into a pillow, with a glass of white wine and a Joni Mitchell record. But I’m saying it here. To you. With red wine and no record. Because the needle’s broken. Because I broke it. Because I break things. Not on purpose. That’s the worst part. I break them with love. That’s the thing about death, isn’t it

Cracker

I slept with a guy last week who said I laughed like a fire alarm. I didn’t know if that was a compliment. I decided it was. I decided a lot of things are compliments if you tilt your head and squint. Like being called “a lot.” Or “exhausting.” Or “the reason I’m late for my own therapy.” The jumper you can’t throw away because it

Oh right. You paid for a ticket.