Margot Tenenbaum arrives by white convertible. There is a cowboy in the driver's seat. Eli Cash says:

"That time I said I didn't love you anymore..."

Margot watches herself smoke in the rear view mirror. It streams out of the corner of her mouth. Her nicotine inhaler is in her pocket. She taps her wooden finger against it and enjoys the subtle clacking noise.

"Yes?" She says.

"I still did," Eli says. "I was just hurt."

Margot says: "Is this part of your program?"

Eli admits that it is. Margot asks how Richie is doing.

"Fine," Eli says.

Margot exits the car and enters the restaurant. A waiter tells her she 'can't smoke in here'.

"I'm not," she says, and throws her cigarette out the door. She clutches her orange Birkin in front of her and stares at the waiter expressionlessly.

My father; my real father, lives in Indiana, and he is the reason I only have nine fingers. Some things aren't worth it.

My father; my adopted father, always made note of this when introducing me. He and my mother separated when I was young. My mother raised us. My brother Chas. My brother Richie. And me. She wrote a book about it. Family of Geniuses.

I write plays. I hadn't lately.

There are things I believe in telling, and things I don't. This isn't because they aren't important. I know the things I don't want people to know.

My brother's friend, and mine, the novelist Eli Cash, who grew up across the street from us, has said he always wanted to be a Tenenbaum. It doesn't mean now what it used to.

My father, Royal Tenenbaum, is dead. I miss the hell out of him.