Cecily: My father arrives in Paris tomorrow.
Alexander: I will pray for you, to whatever agnostic force exists in the beyond.
Cecily: You need not do that. My father is lovely.
Alexander: Oh really? I thought you too suffered from a case of « batshit family ».
Cecily: I do have a batshit family, but probably not in your sense. We’re high-functioning on the bad-shit spectrum.
Alexander: I think this is the death of me — falling in love with a man on the West Coast and relaxing further into the blissful black hole of soft drugs and rampant socially acceptable alcoholism that is Portland.
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: I am a Creative Strategist. I may not save lives, but I sure as hell guarantee the emotional wellbeing of aesthetes.
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.
Inès: You just have to meet Tatiana. She’s the kind of girl that wherever she goes, she has a birdbath full of blow.
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.
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