Tuesday Morning

MINA LOY and GERTRUDE STEIN are in Stein’s sitting room, drinking tea and admiring the new Picasso on the wall. LOY drops her handkerchief, and upon sitting back up, bursts into tears. After a second of crying, she uses the handkerchief to dry her eyes and begins to laugh.

LOY: Dear Gertrude, when I wrote that we should forget that we live in houses, so as to live in ourselves — I didn’t mean to take myself quite so literally!

STEIN: Mina, girl, whatever could you seem?

LOY: Stephen and I got into a dust-up last week, and I’m afraid I —

She stops talking, laughs uproariously for a moment before taking another chastising drink of tea.

STEIN: Spit it out, then, sit it out, then, let’s nab it—

LOY: I’m afraid I have managed to sell our bed.

STEIN: That’s it! Hardly a dust-up, more of a bust-up, and anyway sugar is no vegetable.

LOY: Exactly, that’s just as I was saying, and anyway Marcel agreed with me that Stephen was acting a fool and a half and then we got caught up and Marcel was offering me twenty pounds to take our bed and exhibit it at that show I was just telling you about and of course I agreed. When Stephen came home last night he turned half a dozen shades of orange and then—

STEIN: A hurt color indeed…

LOY: More like a burnt color, I have to tell you, it was entirely ridiculous … it all happened exactly as you’d said it might, Marcel—

MARCEL DUCHAMP, dressed entirely in lampshades, climbs out of the ornate couch in the corner.

DUCHAMP: A bird color indeed. Afternoon, ladies, but I’m afraid I must be going if I’m to make the footrace.

He tips his lampshade hat at STEIN and LOY and briskly walks out. STEIN offers LOY another tea cookie.