Blanche: Dorothy, maybe I ought to go to New York with you. New York is a writer's city. I could hang out at the Algonquin, talk to my colleagues, get the juices going.
Dorothy: Honey, I'm going just for two days to see a doctor. I've asked Rose to go with me.
Blanche: Rose? Why her?
Dorothy: She's comforting.
Blanche: And I'm not?
Sophia: You told me you were having a pedicure when your husband was dying.
Blanche: Well, of course I was, Sophia. It was the third Thursday of the month. If I'd cancelled, that would have been it for July and August when I'd be wearing open-toed sandals.
Sophia: Angel of mercy.
Blanche: Well, I didn't know he was gonna pick that precise hour to die. How could I know that?
Rose: Well, he was in a coma.
Blanche: Oh, he'd been in a coma for days.