The model and the playwright have just met. He brings her back to his bohemian studio to play her a song he says he’s written. He sits at the piano and impresses her with the following lyrics about the illusiveness of sexual attraction and romance, and the emptiness we must all face when love slips away. The piece can also be performed as a poem:

Blue, like blue like blue is how I’m feeling, blew like how the wind blew all night long, and blew aside your cotton dress revealing, this, the opening of the opening of a song. You, like how you seemed at our first meeting, but are people ever truly what they seem? For soon I felt that subtle, slight retreating, that marks the ending of the ending of a dream. I’m in the blue room, I’m in the blue, the dream was just a dream, it wasn’t you. Hitch a passage to the moon on some Apollo, get out and take a look at what you find, the earth looks kind of circular and hollow, and blue’s the shade you’ll see you’ve left behind. Blue, not pink, not red, not terracotta, but navy, royal, azure, all those hues, for if from space you look at us we’re notta Ball. We’re a swirling, brilliant, cloudy mass of blues. I’m in the blue room, I’m in the blue, the dream was just a dream, it wasn’t you. 
Tell me why this lonely feeling hits me, that the person who I wanted wasn’t you, and let me say, if politesse permits me, that I’m left with nothing save the colour blue.