“The only drink I like ice in is water, because you can’t water down water. I’m like that with love, too. Don’t you dare add any ice to the hot liquid loving I’m trying to pour all over you.”

“If I offer you a glass of water, and bring back a cup of ice, I’m trying to teach you patience. And also that sometimes you get ice with no water, and later you’ll get water with no ice. Ah, but that’s life, no?
”

“I’m always buried in something. But I love you. I try to listen to what’s going on. If you need me, just—bring in a bucket of water, or something. Well, not water around the computers. Maybe a cattle prod. No. Not around the computers . . ..” “Ice,” I said. “Down the back.”

“I make love like a flamethrower would make a good ice machine. But that’s OK, because I like ice water.”

“I’m driving,” Louis-Cesare said, sliding into the low seat as easily as if he’d done it a hundred times. “You’re drunk.”I wished. “I had all of two beers, mostly for the water content.”“If you needed water, why didn’t you drink water?”“I don’t like water.”

“Waitress: "And to drink?"Artemis: "Spring water. Irish, if you have it. And no ice, please. As your ice is no doubt made from tap water, which rather defeats the purpose of spring water.”