Fleabag: Scriptures

by Phoebe Waller-Bridge

She undoes her coat. She only has her bra on underneath. She pulls out the little sculpture of the woman with no arms from her trousers. It sits on her lap. Two women. One real. One not. Both with their innate femininity out. She looks at the camera and smiles.

Don’t make me hate you. Loving you is painful enough.

Either everyone feels like this a little bit and they’re just not talking about it…Or I am completely fucking alone. Which isn’t fucking funny.

It takes real commitment to be this happy. It’s not just drinking and eating well either. Putting pine nuts in your salad doesn’t make you a grown-up.

People are all we’ve got. So grab the night by the nipples and go and flirt with someone.

Don’t make me an optimist, you will ruin my life!

I sometimes worry — (beat) — that I wouldn’t be such a feminist if I had bigger tits.

Well, I was thinking about how peaceful I felt and then for some reason I was thinking about your tits which kind of ruined it.

It’s a gentle, loving kiss. It’s nothing short of fucking beautiful.

I AM NOT A BAD GUY, I just have a bad personality.

I think you know how to love better than any of us. That’s why you find it all so painful.

Harry was convinced that the greatest love story we had to tell was that between Fleabag and herself. I shuddered at the sentimentality of it, but I knew it was true.