Beckett play (Google Books ⧉, Amazon ⧉, Bookshop ⧉)

Year of the Monkey

—We’ve become a Beckett play, Sam says good-naturedly. I imagine us rooted in our place at the kitchen table, each of us dwelling in a barrel with a tin lid, we wake up and poke out our heads and sit before our coffee and peanut‐butter toast waiting until the sun rises, plotting as if we are alone, not alone together but each alone, not disturbing the aura of the other’s aloneness. —Yep, a Beckett play, he repeats.