After the Getaway

An imagined reunion between Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway—ten years after Bonnie and Clyde rewrote the rules of Hollywood cool. The year is 1977. They meet by accident at a quiet coffee shop in Beverly Hills. The steam is real. So is the history. What follows is half flirtation, half forensic dissection of a film that made them immortal—and made them impossible for each other.

Scene: A corner table at The Daily Grind, Beverly Hills. Late afternoon.
The coffee shop has the usual suspects: producers in sunglasses, screenwriters with unfinished novels, and an old actress holding court by the muffins, pretending she didn’t recognize her own reflection in the chrome espresso machine.
The door opens.
Warren Beatty, ever the reluctant legend, steps in wearing aviators and a haircut that cost someone else’s rent. He’s scanning the menu like it just offered him a three-picture deal.
Then he stops.
Faye Dunaway is already seated. No entourage. No fuss. Just a tall black coffee, a copy of Le Monde, and a look that says she’s been waiting for this moment whether she admits it or not.
He grins. She doesn’t. Not yet.

BEATTY (removing his glasses):
Jesus. If I’d known you were here, I’d have worn something tragic and smelled like regret.
DUNAWAY (folding her paper):
That would’ve been a nice change. You usually smell like promises you never keep.
BEATTY:
That’s fair. May I?
DUNAWAY (gesturing):
It’s a free country. For now.

He slides into the chair across from her. The waitress brings him coffee without asking. That’s Beverly Hills shorthand for “we remember.”

BEATTY:
So... ten years.
DUNAWAY:
Since they riddled us with bullets and called it art.
BEATTY:
Still one hell of a way to go out.
DUNAWAY:
For characters, yes. For people—not so much.

Pause. She stirs her coffee like it’s misbehaved. He watches her the way a man watches someone who once saw through him—and stayed. Briefly.

BEATTY:
I never thanked you properly.
DUNAWAY:
For what? Making me a legend or making me crazy?
BEATTY:
Both.
DUNAWAY (softly):
You’re welcome.

The room hums around them. A producer laughs too loudly about box office returns. A woman in Gucci walks by and double-takes. Neither of them looks. They’ve played to bigger crowds.

DUNAWAY:
Do you remember how hot it was on that bank robbery set in Texas?
BEATTY:
Only every time I smell gunpowder or ambition.
DUNAWAY:
You rewrote half the script. You were impossible.
BEATTY:
You rewrote half me. You were worse.

She smiles. Not big. But enough to show she remembers too. The hunger. The cameras. The slow bleed of two beautiful people trying to out-act death.

DUNAWAY:
You know, I still get letters. Women saying Bonnie was the first time they saw a woman be dangerous and desired.
BEATTY:
And I still get stopped by men who ask how I made you look at me like that.
DUNAWAY:
You didn’t. I looked at Clyde.
BEATTY (raising an eyebrow):
Is that so?
DUNAWAY:
You wanted to be producer, star, icon. I just wanted to blow the doors off every woman they told me to be.

Silence. Heavy, but not cruel. They sip. The cups clink like punctuation marks between confessions.

BEATTY:
We changed things, Faye. Whether we meant to or not.
DUNAWAY:
And broke a few along the way.
BEATTY:
Including each other?
DUNAWAY:
Especially each other.

He looks out the window. It’s a warm day, but the light’s fading. Everything golden eventually turns blue.

BEATTY:
I wanted to call. After the Oscars. After the Cannes thing. Even after that mess in Rome.
DUNAWAY:
Why didn’t you?
BEATTY:
Because you deserved more than a man who wasn’t done being adored.
DUNAWAY (quietly):
And I wasn’t done being difficult.

They laugh. It’s smaller now. Honest. Like exiles waving across a border that used to be a bed.

DUNAWAY:
Would you do it again?
BEATTY:
Bonnie and Clyde?
DUNAWAY:
Us.
BEATTY (after a long pause):
Only if we got to pick a different ending.
DUNAWAY:
No bullets?
BEATTY:
Maybe just one. But this time in slow motion... so we can savor it.

The bell on the door rings. A young couple enters—fresh, loud, oblivious. She wears a leather jacket. He’s quoting something Scorsese.

DUNAWAY (watching them):
They think they’re the revolution.
BEATTY:
Let them. Ours left teeth marks.

She stands. He rises too. Old habits. Hollywood manners. Respect between survivors.

DUNAWAY:
You know, for a man who once planned every scene, you never knew your own third act.
BEATTY:
Maybe it’s still being rewritten.
DUNAWAY:
Then don’t cast someone who can’t keep up.

She turns to go. He watches her walk away. Graceful. Precise. Like someone who never needed anyone to call “action” to own the frame.

BEATTY (calling out):
Faye.
DUNAWAY (without turning):
Yes?
BEATTY:
You were the best partner I ever had.
DUNAWAY:
I know. That was the problem.

Fade out.
Credits roll in sepia-toned flashbacks, laughter in car trunks, and the sound of Bonnie Parker’s heels walking away into legend.