INT. RESTAURANT. EVENING.
A middle aged couple are sat opposite each other, having dinner in a restaurant.
There is muted conversation in the background from other diners.
The couple eat their meal in silence.
They stare past each other dispassionately.
They take mouthfuls of food. Chewing. Swallowing. Gathering a next forkful.
After a short time, the man lays down his cutlery, takes his knapkin from his lap and politely dabs his mouth.
Pause.
He picks up his glass and takes a deliberate drink of wine.
He replaces his glass on the table and resumes eating in silence.
They continue to eat as before.
The woman puts down her cutlery, takes her knapkin from her lap, dabs her mouth and puts her knapkin on the table beside her plate.
Without altering her expression, she moves her chair back slightly and leans forward.
She threads her left arm between the bars in the back of the chair, turns to face forward and thrusts her torso back against her arm.
There is an audible crack as her arm breaks badly.
She flinches slightly, retains her composure, then carefully pulls her limp, broken arm from behind herself, using the other hand to place it gingerly on the table.
She politely takes a large gulp of wine, sets down her glass and picks up her fork with the right hand.
She stabs at some food.
She pauses.
WOMAN: I just broke my arm.
Pause.
The man stops chewing.
MAN: Which arm?
He chews thoughtfully.
WOMAN: My left arm.
He stops chewing.
Pause.
MAN: You're left arm is broken.
WOMAN: Yes. I just broke it by forcing it in the chair.
Pause.
MAN: That's funny. You know, Michael's daughter broke her arm. I think that was her left arm, too.
WOMAN: Yes. June told me. She did break her arm. But it was her right arm. I remember that.
MAN: Ah yes. That's right, because she had to write with her left arm and she had trouble because she is right handed.
Pause.
The sound of general restaurant hubbub.
They resume their silent meal.
The man pauses.
He nods towards his wife's broken arm on the table.
MAN: Elbows, Dear.
