“You are quite possibly the least smooth guy I know,” she mumbled. “You can’t even put your arm around me without tripping up.”

“Did you know that you deserve much, much more than a guy like Javier?” I asked. “Did you know that even if I did know I deserve more than that, it still haunts me that I can’t at least have it?”

“Sweetie,” Dino said, coming over to put his arm around her shoulder. He tipped her head up and looked into her eyes with great empathy. “You can’t fuck a statue. At least not at that angle. You’d at least have to tip it onto its back first, and as a conservator, I can’t recommend it.”

“No, It does. And if I left, you’d probably want to give me my jacket back. And if you did, I wouldn’t be able to put it on, because the whole time I’d be knowing how perfectly it fit on you. How even though the sleeves are ridiculously too long and the collar is all fucked up and for all I know some guy named Salvatore is going to come in this very club and say, ‘Hey, that’s my jacket’ and strike up a conversation and sweep you off your feet away from me- even though all those things are true or possibly true, I just can’t ruin the image of you sitting there across from me wearing my jacket better than I, or anyone else could. If I don’t owe it to you, and I don’t owe it to me, I at least owe it Salvatore.”

“You broke up with me, and I spend one night with one guy who turns out to be the reason I’m even here, in domestic BLISS with your grouchy ass, and you can’t spare an evening for dinner? You are a dick.”

“Is it possible not to ever know your type-not to even know you have a type-until quite suddenly you do?”