The Apartment (Wilder, 1960)
So tired are the meek and wearied tatters of love. Broken down and built again like wooden blocks. The edges worn smooth from so many tumbles. Lies warm our chests like wine, allowing us to dizzyly drift through one fragrant night after another. And one wonders, in a spinning dream with eyes half opened “If I were awake, would I be such a fool?” But the warm body beside us gently rocks us to sleep, with the best impression of a smile, and sincere word.
Where is our Mr. Baxter? The white collared punching bag so easy to please, the rambling wreck of a sweet man tongue-tied gushing over the wounded bird before him. Where is he to nurse all of us through our failures, to fumble over his own two feet to catch us when we stumble? Where is he, and his awkward honesty?