A well-lit kitchen table.  The lovers are just sitting down to eat breakfast.  They giggle a bit with each other before the dialogue begins.  Relatively uptempo electronic dance music plays in the background.

HE:            [Stops playing around for a minute and looks at her seriously before speaking]

                  Honey. It's too much. You know?

SHE:          What?

HE:            All this sex. It's getting so I can't concentrate.

SHE:          Where?

HE:            At the office. At lunch. On a train. On planes. All I want to do is sleep.

SHE:          Why?

HE:            You know why. Every place I go you're there. Lips open. Smiling, all revved up.

SHE:          [licking her lips]  Aren't you horny too?

HE:            [dreamily] Yes . . .

                  [firmly]  But enough's enough. You're my wife. It's not normal.

SHE:          No?

HE:            [louder]  Love is forever.

SHE:          [even louder]  Lust is right now!

HE:            Sexuality points to nothing beyond itself, no prolongation, except in a frenzy which disrupts it. We have not the least liberated sexuality, though we have, to be exact, carried it to its limits 

SHE:          the limit of consciousness 

HE:            because it ultimately dictates the only possible reading of our unconsciousness

SHE:          the limit of the law 

HE:            since it seems the sole substance of universal taboos

SHE:          the limit of language

HE:            since it traces the line of foam showing just how far speech may advance upon the sands of silence.

[Both face the audience, cheek to cheek, as they say the following together. Before they speak, the music, which has been building with the dialogue, suddenly stops]:

SHE & HE:   [in unison]  sexuality is a fissure.

[The actors separate abruptly.  They begin milling about the kitchen, oblivious of each other, and they begin to talk in more hushed tones.]

SHE:            Simple physical desire. I knew nothing of such an appetite: I had never in my life suffered from hunger, or thirst, or lack of sleep. Now, suddenly, I fell a victim to it. I was separated from Sartre for days or even weeks at a time.

HE:            On our Sundays in Tours we were too shy to go to a hotel bedroom in broad daylight; and besides, I would not have love-making take on the appearance of a concerted enterprise.

SHE:          I was all for liberty, but dead set against deliberation.

HE:            I refused to admit either that one could yield to desires against one's will, or the possibility of organizing one's pleasure in cold blood. Love-making should be as unforeseen and irresistible as the surge of the sea or a peach tree breaking into blossom. I could not have explained why, but the idea of any discrepancy between my physical emotions and my conscious will I found alarming in the extreme: and it was precisely this split that in fact took place. My body had it's own whims

SHE:          and I was powerless to control them; their violence overrode all my defenses.

HE:            Lust is right now

SHE:          You can't keep his dick in your purse.

HE:            How sickening these endless lies one says and hears! How much one wants to be straight with someone!

SHE:          Sex really does seem to be our only break.

HE:            Sometimes I think that nothing else is as real, nothing else is as human, as the feel of a woman's body, the softness of her skin, the warmth and wetness of her cunt.  Even if there were nothing else at all, this alone would be enough forever.

SHE:            But even during really magical moments the inert mass of objects can suddenly become magnetic. The passivity of a lover suddenly unravels the bonds which were being woven, the dialogue is interrupted before it really began.

SHE & HE:   [in unison]  Love's dialectic freezes.

SHE:           Two statues are left lying side by side.

HE:            [Whispered] Two objects.

[Lights fade.  Curtain.]