“Let me finish, because this is how I feel.”
If I’m directing the film starring this couple, a man and woman I'd clock in their 60s, I open with a tight shot of the woman's hands. Especially the right one. Makes a fist; clinch, release. Then she pinches her ring finger; middle; fore.
Repeats the cycle.
The audience only sees hands, but it hears her voice shake as she reaches the summation.
“I can’t focus on your interests for hours. For one hour, maybe, but not for hours.”
I saw them smiling at each other when I first sat down. Two glasses of pinot noir deep, and she starts winding up. As she gets more direct, he delicately lays down his fork. Wipes his mouth. Crooks his right arm and rests his cheek on his knuckles. He is a poised cat. Tail slowly swaying. Patient. When she makes her definitive statement--her plea--and winds down, he raises his head from his knuckles, uncrosses his legs, and leans in.
While he talks--a monotonous mumble--she resumes eating. Darting her eyes from peas to him to steak to him and back to peas.
Repeats the cycle.
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