Cecily: I may still have to get married.
Ishmaël: You know I’ll run for it.
Cecily: Run from it is my suggestion.
Ishmaël: Why would you fill my heart with disillusion?
Cecily: The butterfly drinks its own nectar my dear. I fill it not. Drink only from lovely flowers, and you shall be saved from your disillusionment.
Ishmaël: What a poet thou art, Cecily Shelley Keats Tennyson.
Cecily: Egad! I already have too many last names to get married.
Cecily: Guess. What.
Alexander: I would not know where to begin. But, given your house hunt, might I be speaking with a woman in escrow?
Alexander: I’d love to try being gluten free at some point, but during this chapter of my life, I’m quite content having an extra three kilos and a perpetual cloud of shame hanging about my head.
Alexander: I have abandoned any semblance of social activism for rampant hedonism and romantic individualism, as all my friends said I would.
Alexander: And my semi-obscure French word for June is rightfully, in my opinion anyway, “frisson”.
Cecily: Why Nicolas, you’re looking incredibly Bogart today. You’re practically coffee stained and singed around the edges.
Jonathan: I wonder if sometimes I am the mermaid and you are the argonaut.
Cecily: Arise fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale under fucking rain clouds.
Cecily: Shakira and Beyoncé pulsed through the walls, and we gave ourselves up to translucent fabrics and hot nights with optional toplessness and mandatory thrusting.
Cecily: Just one day, I want to be on the train to Inverness and catch a man’s eye. We’d fall easily into a Lady Macbeth and Macbeth kind of love.
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