La Cantatrice chauve

It's nine o'clock in the suburbs of London. People are waiting for other people. They've eaten soup, fish, bacon potatoes and English salad, which, we agree, makes a certain amount of sense in suburban London.
We meet up.
We get to know each other, tell stories, have a great evening. We talk. We talk nonsense - scrabble's a clever game! - we try our hand at charades, jumping from rooster to donkey and from vice to Versailles. A fireman lights a maid, one should always be wary of the fire that smoulders under the sleeping water.
We get a little lost
We have a pretty good evening. Maybe we shouldn't drink so much, it's not exactly the ideal day to start smoking. We dance. When we get too much of a headache, we'll lie down on the floor to rest. If we're too happy, we'll climb up on the table. We're having a not too bad night.
We're making noise with our mouths.
We're having a night like any other night, screaming, whining, moaning and singing. We never shut up - silence is no longer an option. When you're too scared, you cheat a little. When we're ready to devour each other, we leave each other.
Each of us plays his part.
We can meet again another evening, we'll start again whenever we want, whenever we need to. Nothing concerns us. We never say anything, we just talk.

Jean-Luc Lagarce