lust

Alexander, on a dream bathroom.

Alexander: Archaic French plumbing is only as irksome as you allow it to be.

Cecily: Every one of my white clothes is now ruined thanks to a lipstick that weaselled its way into my washing machine.

Alexander: Was the lipstick at the very least Saint Laurent?

Cecily: I choose my sweet potatoes for their aesthetic merit.

Alexander: And my semi-obscure French word for June is rightfully, in my opinion anyway, “frisson”.

Arnaud: I won’t go back on Tinder. How could I say “Hi, I’m Arnaud. I see a psychiatrist and a magnetist !” ?

Cecily: Instead, tell everyone you see dead people. Way cooler. Vintage ’90s.

Cecily: Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale under fucking rain clouds.

Rahoul: A female is in the place. She must be mounted.

Cecily: Annie may already be falling for you.

Rahoul: She has. What are you talking about? This is Rahoul; the dragon speaks, the lamb falls.

Arnaud: Who is Lina?

Cecily: A good friend of mine.

Arnaud: I have seen her in photographs. She is extraordinarily gorgeous. Is she weird, or desperately conventional?

Alexander: All male members of our race are DEAD TO ME.

Cecily: Your only recourse is to become a lesbian. Or a monk. Or both.

Alexander: I’ll be a lesbian insofar as I don’t have to see any tits.