"I'm telling you, Marge — this is the last one."
"Then drink up, Doreen. Drink up."
It’s closing time at The Fallopian — a dim little dive that’s been losing customers for years. Doreen and Marge have worked the same shift for four decades. Tonight, only one egg remains in the jar behind the bar.
Over seventy-five minutes and too many cocktails, two ovaries reckon with what they’ve made, what they’ve lost, and whether the last round is worth pouring at all. Bold, vulgar, tender, and quietly furious — The Last Egg is a tragicomedy about the body that holds you and the friend who stays past closing.
Forty years of pouring. Hasn't cried at work since 1998. Owns three identical aprons. Believes the jar is half full.
Hates the jukebox. Loves the jukebox. Knows every regular's drunk and none of their names. Pours heavy when it counts.
Been behind the rail since before Doreen and Marge showed up. Says little, pours fast, and always cuts them off exactly one drink too late.
A doo-wop duo who emerge from the froth when the mood gets too heavy. Their harmonies are immaculate. Their timing is deeply suspicious.
Nobody knows when she'll appear. One minute it's a quiet scene — the next, a wild woman bursts through the fourth wall to rant about the script, the lighting, and her ex.
The Fallopian — Opening look
Last call
One for the road
The director has notes
Six shows. Two venues. One last egg per performance — once it’s gone, it’s gone.
“Filthy, funny, and quietly devastating.”
“A two-hander with the punch of a one-two.”
“You will laugh. Then you will text your mother.”
Don't wait for the houselights. Grab a seat at the bar while there's still something left in the jar.
Get your tickets
