i swear to god, you never give anything enough time! what did you expect in five days, max?
i would really appreciate it if you wouldn't be terribly glib just now, max. that's okay with max, who's willing to eschew communica- tion of all kinds and just finish heaving his stuff in the valise.
am i to assume you'll be at the airport in calcutta a week from tomorrow?
screw you, max -- i paid for it! how many times am i going to let you walk out on me and come back?
yes, yes, yes, that's right, yes! i turned in your ticket!
i bought it, i got a refund!
you want to go home with me?
then prove it.
buy yourself a ticket.
use your credit cards.
no! you won't pay me back; you never have. oh, max!
oh, stop it! you have no earthly idea what you want, max! and stop calling me betsy ilene kahn.
you call me betsy ilene kahn like you just met me yesterday.
don't get cute! you get cute and i swear to god --- you told me once i look like my mother!
see -- you don't understand!
i hate you!
i stood by you for three years!
i supported you through your internship!
why? it was never working. what have i been thinking all these years -- that you'd change? you're the most self-pitying, self-destructive, self.  she can't find anything fierce enough, so she abates, tries to get it together to make a dignified exit.
but you've taught me something, max. you never finish anything. well, i quit. i've found my light and i'm free of you. she heads for the gate, people parting to give her a wide berth.
do it yourself, max. call her collect. you should have called her weeks ago anyway just because she's your mother! white light, white light! she hands her ticket and boarding pass over and she's through the gate. max turns to find the audience fixed on him.