Pinocchio: *with an arrogant smile* Good morning wife. See how bright and shiny I am?
Loving Wife: *with a sorrowful gaze* I see that you were a bad boy. By your eyes which are wide and glassy you appear drugged. By your pinpricks of pupils I see that you are turned completely inward. By your rigid, hunched over stance I know that you are afraid.
Pinocchio: *screwing up his face into an lewd frown* You always just see the bad stuff! You are so mean to me! I am good! I have been absolutely good. I have not given in to any urges nor bought any whore nor paid for sex for almost a year!
Loving Wife: *sadly* Ah, look, how your penis grows.
Pinocchio: *covering his enlarging organ with pudgy fingers* What? What can you mean? I am in control of this penis. I have recovered my sense of self worth. I am working my program. How dare you say I am actively addicted?
Loving Wife: *putting on a brave face despite the pit of fear in her stomach* Oh, my Pinocchio. By the vast reach of your laboring penis, I know that you lie.
Pinocchio: *twisting away to hide his lengthening woodie* You just see what you want to see! You hear what you want to hear! You won’t believe the truth! You are wrong!
Loving Wife: *gazing resolutely at the wooden boy* I will not let you spout such lies without telling you that I recognize them as lies. Money and time and beauty you have lost that you cannot explain. I have spent these months gathering evidence like leaves in the Fall. You are a clever boy, but I have such a barrel of evidence that and by this I know.
Pinocchio: *penis growing longer and crooked and ugly and sprouting hideous mushrooms* Your evidence means nothing! Where my money is spent means nothing! You can’t make me prove I have been good! If you don’t want to believe me, that is your problem. I know I have been good!
Loving Wife: *tears leaking from her eyes like rivers* But you open your wooden mouth and out tumble wooden thoughts about wooden, dead, hollow emotions. Once, long ago, you held up your thick little fingers in the fire light of my love to create your shadow self. But a ray of sun came in our window, a year past, and I finally glimpsed the puppet master. I know now that he is just a wooden boy, and fear and loathing, shame and lust pull his strings. Without love, without care, without hope, without reality.
Pinocchio: *pointing a knotty finger with rage* It is all your fault! You don’t want me to get better. You don’t want me to become a real boy! You just want to make an ass of me!
Loving Wife: *becoming more upright and strong* You have only practiced how to stay pretend. Each time you might have practiced reality, you continued to tell lies. When you could honestly open up and reach out, you close down and run away to live with your fantasy life. You can only become a real boy if, and when, you really, really want it, if you need it more than air, more even than you need be wary of fire lest you burn to ash.
Pinocchio: *stamping and pounding his fists* Waaaaaaa! Why won’t you just leave me alone? Why won’t you just play along and pretend everything is OK and that you believe my lies so I don’t have to DO anything and still get to have everything I want???? *blowing and huffing wild eyed while he grasps his pacifier penis*
Loving Wife: *drying her tears as she turns away* Oh, but I will. Soon, very soon, you will be alone. I am no longer your blue fairy. And you will never get to be a real boy. *she quietly closes the door*
Pinocchio: *cannot hear her parting words over the painful squeals of wood on wood and his own panting while he masturbates to images of little wooden girls hurting other little wooden girls, and the smell of smoke fills the room……*